Dragondirge
by D. M. Domini
Summary: Master Domick is tasked with teaching an ex-Dragonrider named Woadred the art of musical composition. Woadred tasks himself with building a new life. (Rewrite of Weyrbred Lads)
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The muted sound of Robinton's baritone voice once again rising and falling behind the closed door of his office drew Domick's slightly sour attention as he retreated to his own quarters for the evening. Silly man was going to do himself damage if he kept pushing for those tenor notes, and was he singing it _again_ anyway? Even _Domick_ was tired of that tune now, and _he_ was the one that had composed the bloody thing in the first place!

And then the song ended, Robinton said something, and a lighter voice rose up and down in response. Probably Menolly.

Domick had actually enjoyed their session today, the irregularities of spring sickness completely decimating the choir and orchestra aside. Robinton had substituted himself as the under-under-_under_ study for the leading man's part, as the _real_ understudies and under-under studies were abed hacking up their vocal cords, and Domick had taken full advantage of the possibilities tag-teaming a rehearsal session with Robinton. Silver lining, and all. Between Domick's sour comments and Robinton's sweet ones—and sometimes Domick's saccharine comments and Robinton's sarcastic ones that completely boggled those unlucky enough to never have experienced a Robinton-Domick team up before—the rehearsal had been as much of a success as it possibly could have been.

Well, he'd be back to the same old grind tomorrow; there wasn't much chance Robinton would be free to join them in again, and one of the understudies was supposedly on the mend, according to Master Oldive.

Thinking of that, Domick realized he'd forgotten to tell one of the Journeymen to boil the mouthpieces as a preventative measure against this spring malaise. Thread wasn't the only thing heat and water eradicated.

That, in turn, made him think about the problem of those two weyrbred lads swapping reeds on the sly. You couldn't boil a reed the same way you could a metal mouthpiece. So he had to find time to talk to them in private...redirect their enthusiasm for one another into a route that didn't include exchanging bodily fluids.

Ha. Like _that_ ever worked. On second thought, maybe he'd let Master Oldive handle that one. Which just left the boiling part to do.

Always things to do. Domick paused in front of the door to his chambers, then sighed and turned around to head back towards the dining room. If he didn't assign it now, it wouldn't get done before tomorrow, and he'd spent the rehearsal with a creepy-crawly sensation running up his back whenever he looked at one of the commonly shared brass instruments. There should be _someone_ there trustworthy to dump a bunch of mouth pieces in a pot and sit patiently while they cooked the germs away. Had to get it done now.

However, halfway across the courtyard, Domick was hailed.

"Master Domick!"

"Master Talmor," Domick said, nodding to the newly walked Master who was approaching him rapidly. "I see you're coming from the dining room. Any lads in there that are trustworthy?"

Talmor laughed. "Depends on exactly what you're entrusting them to do. If you trust them to stuff themselves on extra desserts, or brawl, or gossip, then I'm sure you'll find _someone_." Talmor grinned. "But! Before you go—" and he paused and reached up to his shoulder where a little brown firelizard from one of Beauty's clutches sat, "Rona just arrived with a message for you."

Domick had never been particularly inclined to add to the ever-expanding collective firelizard faire of the Hall, even though he had to but ask for an egg. Menolly had hinted that she had one for him if he wanted it the first Turn after she'd come here, but he had turned her down. Robinton, too, had extended the offer, just in case Menolly had been too shy to adequately explain to Domick that there really _was_ an egg for Domick if he wanted one. He had turned down that offer as well. He'd _seen_ the work that went into raising and training firelizards, and novelty factor aside, he wasn't sure he wanted to spend a month or two being awoken by ravenous shrieks of a hatchling convinced it was starving to death, or take hours oiling dry hide, or become...temperamental...because the firelizards were flying. Not that anyone admitted to _that_ part of things, but one only had to witness Menolly and Sebell painfully ignoring each other at certain seasonal junctions. He wasn't dull-witted.

But all of this meant most of Domick's correspondence was though traditional routes; message drums, or a letter brought by runners or traders. It was a bit suspicious for him to receive a message via firelizard.

Talmor picked the note out of the leather tube attached to Rona's chest, and handed it to Domick with a slight bow. It had been sealed with a small daub of wax, which was yet unbroken, and on the outside was written "Master Domick, c/o Rona and Talmor of the Harper Hall, Fort".

Domick shot a curious look at Talmor, and the young Master just shrugged. So Domick merely knitted his brows, said, "Thank you", and watched as the man walked away.

Domick did not move to follow. Boiling mouthpieces and swapping reeds forgotten once more, he carefully cracked the seal on the letter, and stood in the middle of the courtyard, reading.

His dark eyes scanned quickly through the cramped text that would do Master Arnor proud. Then he read it through again. And then a third time, just to make sure he understood why a letter like this was going to _him_ and not the Masterharper. A frown tugged his face down, prompted by annoyance that anyone would try to involve _him_ in anything like _this_, but then softened into pity. "Poor lad."

_Master Domick,_ Harper Isenhard of Ista Weyr wrote. _What if I'd told you I'd met a man who can take any of my poems and fit thirty different melodies to it, as if tunes were tunics, and Harpers Tailors? What if I'd told you he can weave harmonies to Menolly's tunes like warp and weft? What if I said he spends all his waking hours playing the gitar, and spins songs like the ever-changing weather, beautiful and without words or endings, one melody merging into another?_

_ And what if I told you this man only has to look up and nod, and any dragonrider in this Weyr will take him on a short trip _between _that he'll never return from?_

Comprehension was quick to dawn in Domick's mind. Dragonriders believed strongly in a man's right to live and die as he pleased, to make extreme life-altering _choices_ with minimal fuss, as they all once had upon being Searched.

This was not a "choice" they offered to anyone but their own.

_Master Domick_, _I've taught Woadred everything I know of composition. It seems like it goes in and there's nothing there, but then I hear it applied in his songs, _perfectly_ to my trained ear. He soaks it up like a sponge. Instead of sleeping, eating, and staring at the walls, now he sleeps, eats, and plays. Which I consider to be great improvement...and so does the Weyrleader, D'ram._

_ I've been trying to feed him any scrap I can recall you taught me before you and I realized I was all about the words and _not_ about the composition, but I've run out of things and he's started _changing_ in not-so-good ways now that I've no more to show him or challenge him with, and he's begun having issues with vegetables—_

_ —Vegetables?_ Domick wondered.

_ I think you can see where this is going,_ Isenhard concluded, without elaborating.

Yes, indeed. And Isenhard...

Isenhard had been Domick's Apprentice for a while, until it became clear Isenhard had more love for the lyrics than the music. Then Isenhard had been shuffled over to Master Arnor...who hadn't an inch of originality in his bones, so bent he was on preserving old Records down to the littlest scuff marks, so Isenhard had still come by to chat with Domick when he had free time, up to the point where he walked the tables and was offered a posting at Ista Weyr, and those casual visits obviously became a bit impractical to say the least.

Isenhard was a bit romantic in his approach to the world, sometimes slightly erratic and flighty, but also hardworking and practical-minded, and had little tolerance for fools once the determinedly cheerful "evaluation time" he gave everyone at the beginning expired, and Domick trusted his judgment.

Well, Domick trusted his judgment that if _someone_ didn't keep feeding that lonely spark of interest in life and music, this ex-rider Isenhad wrote of might join his beloved companion in whatever existed beyond _between_. But Domick was not so certain that _he_ was the one to address this. Yes, he _was_ Composition Master...

...but shepherding a broken half-man back into the world of the living was no responsibility he would have ever considered, nor one to take up on a mere whim. It would be more challenging than raising a firelizard—albeit for very different reasons—and Domick was not at all sure he _wanted_ that challenge. Adults were notoriously difficult to change, which is why he was so strict with the youngsters, when it was still possible to correct poor technique.

This man, obviously, was no youngster. Whatever love of music he had, that didn't mean he'd make a useful Harper. Not all Harpers had to be the diplomat that Robinton was—indeed Domick himself was not famed for his amiability and tolerance—but they had to be functional doing duties other than singing.

Domick was no Healer, to put a broken man together again. He already had a Hall full of children to attend to. His life was clean—no family, no ex-romantic interests upset with him, no firelizards...

Of course, a man wasn't a firelizard. Nor was he a child. He was a hero, broken upon the very danger he had sought to protect the rest of their world from.

So, gut instincts aside, it wasn't in Domick's heart to just say "no" and be done with it. He was not yet that callous.

Domick rolled the note back up and tucked it into the breast of his tunic. He'd speak to Robinton in the morning, and seek some insight.

#

Domick passed Menolly the next morning coming out of the Masterharper's quarters in the Hall, but she seemed preoccupied and only spared him a small, tired-seeming smile. He nodded to her, and approached Robinton's quarters.

_Tap-tap._

"Come in," Robinton said.

Domick opened the door.

"Why, hello Domick," the Masterharper greeted him. "Need a under-_under-_under-study again?" and he continued shoveling breakfast into his maw at his desk. He wore his sleeping furs still, bundled around his waist.

Domick entered, closed the door behind him, and spoke. "Do you have a few minutes to speak about a potential Apprentice coming to the Hall?"

"I have a few minutes if you are able to speak _now_, otherwise it will have to wait until this evening. I have a rather full schedule today and I'm not even dressed yet."

"Has Isenhard sent you anything?"

Robinton took a generous bite of bread with some sort of jam slathered over it. "Not that I'm aware of. Something going on in Ista Weyr?"

"Take a look at this." Domick passed the note he'd been sent, then snagged one of the stools before Robinton's desk and straddled it.

Robinton took the note, and held it in his right hand as he worked on decimating the bread held in his left hand. When he reached the part about "ex-dragonrider" he sucked his breath in between his teeth—luckily after he had swallowed so that Domick was prevented from having to do something about the bloody Masterharper of Pern choking to death!—and shook his head. "I heard about this when it happened, yes, but there's been no momentum until now. Of course, he's welcome to be transferred to the Hall—"

At that moment, Zair decided to snake out his head and take a chomp of the bread, nearly jerking the piece out of the Masterharper's hand.

Robinton paused to stare at his friend in complete astonishment, as the firelizard gave the mouthful a few chomps, then deposited it uneaten on Robinton's tray. Robinton's eyes fell to the gobbet, then back to Zair. "There is a bowl. Right there. With meat entirely for you." And he pointed a long finger at it almost accusingly.

Zair slunk off of the Harper's shoulder and began to slowly work his way through the bowl by selecting a chunk, swallowing, and staring at both of them balefully before selecting another chunk.

"Springtime?" Domick asked, referring to the general firelizard proddiness he'd been noticing recently once more. The phenomenon nobody quite acknowledged.

Robinton's blue eyes came up to meet his for a moment, then he looked away and waved his bread-holding hand dismissively. It was a bit disconcerting, that sudden clear-eyed gaze, even for Domick who felt he was more or less Robinton's equal insofar as strictly musical matters went. "As I was about to say... this ex-rider is welcome here. I am willing to make accommodations if he needs them. But if he's doing complex wordless pieces and nothing else, he's probably most suited to _your_ teaching, particularly if one of your own past students is recommending it. What do _you_ want to do, Domick? If Isenhard thinks he can make a transition here, he'll probably be at least three or four more times self-sufficient as Camo, he's dragonless, not dimwitted, but we may still encounter some social issues. Outbursts of emotion, or preferences for extreme isolation. Something along those trajectories. I'd want to learn more from Isenhard about his character and personality before we brought him here, so we could give him the support he needs. This really is your choice, Domick; we won't be doing any good for him if we bring him here into an environment that's not actually interested in developing his potential as a person and a Harper."

Domick had hoped Robinton might know more about this man; he had expected Robinton's general responses, including ceding the choice to him, the Master the Apprentice would be working under, but as Robinton seemed to know nothing specific or recent, it was as he'd said: they'd need to learn specifics from Isenhard.

Or..."Would I be able to go to Ista?"

Robinton stopped eating. "You don't trust Isenhard's assessment?"

"If the situation was different, I would. But I think it's only respectful to speak to this Woadred myself, and look him in the eye if we decide his place isn't at the Hall. He did after all fight thread for Pern once. And since he may be reluctant to ride dragonback, I think it makes more sense for me to go to him." Domick paused. "Of course, our spring schedule will make it difficult for me to find the time."

"Yes, you're right." Robinton pondered, shifting facts around in his mind quickly. "Actually, no, you're not. It should only take a day or so to asses him. I'll take over your responsibilities while you're away, or Menolly can—"

Given Robinton had already cautioned Domick about his busy schedule, Dominick assumed it would be Menolly. She was competent though, so it did make sense, although it was unusual for her to also still be in the Hall at this time of Turn. Robinton and his personal assistants were always busy, and usually out right as the thaws seemed here to stay.

"We'll get you out there to Ista Weyr, and you returned back here, with or without him as the decision may be. Will that work?"

"Perfectly," Domick said, and rose off of the stool.

"I'll send Zair to the Weyr with a request for a dragon, since that's your destination, and could you make up a reply to Isenhard? We'll send them both via Zair. Leave whatever you need to send to Isenhard on my desk here; I'll find it sometime today and send it. And Domick?"

"Eh?"

"_Thank you_. I know you're not as hard-hearted as you make the Apprentices think you are, but even a soft-hearted man might make a quick decision to say 'no' in this particular situation."

"I try to be fair, Robinton. You know that."

"I do," and Robinton gave the Composition Master of the Harper Hall a nod of respect.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_Tap-tap._ Domick stood by Robinton's door later that day after dinner and fiddled with the rolled and sealed message he had for Isenhard, flipping the cylinder from strong finger to strong finger with the agility of a Master-rank Harper. It was about two hours after sunset, but for someone like Masterharper Robinton, who seemed to live on air, wine, and the melodious calls of his bronze firelizard, the evening was barely started.

Was he still here? Or had he run off to some other hold, hall, or weyr after the meal? No, he couldn't have, no dragons had been to the Hall this evening, and with his relationship with F'lar and Lessa and most of the other Weyrleaders of Pern being at an all-time high, he never lacked for dragon transportation. The sight of the Masterharper on a runner these days was a rare sight indeed, although Domick could still remember a time when the Harper had rode that vicious black beast everywhere he went.

_Tap-tap._ He knocked again and waited for anything to stir in the room beyond the door, but his keen ears heard nothing. He paused for a second, then gently tried the door handle, but the door was latched.

Odd.

So Domick leaned over and slipped the message under the door for the Harper to find in the morning.

Then he headed to bed.

#

_Tap-tap._

Domick awoke to a light rapping at his door and scowled. He lay with an arm shielding his eyes from the half-open window and growled at nothing in particular, but the tapping came again, more purposefully. It was the sound of someone who felt they had a right to be interrupting him in his slumber.

"If you're anyone but the Masterharper himself, if I find you still out there when I open the door I'll tan your hide!"

There was no response. So Domick closed his eyes again and tried to get another two or three winks of sleep, for today had had no duties until after lunch.

Alas, it was no use. If thoughts about the mouthpieces...which, he realized, he'd _still _never delegated anyone to boil...weren't running through his head, he was thinking of his next composition, or the ex-dragonrider, or about the rumble of his stomach...

He hadn't actually slept in on one of his free mornings for Turns, had he? There was no point.

So he threw the sleeping furs off, washed his face and underarms in the washbasin with a promise of visiting the Masters' bathing pool later on that day, and found a clean light blue tunic and trousers with faded Master's marks on them to wear.

When he opened his door abruptly to hunt down breakfast, a frightened bronze firelizard shrieked and went _between_ and he found an equally startled Masterharper leaning against the wall next to his door.

"I said I wouldn't tan _your_ hide," Domick said mildly, wondering why Robinton was loitering outside of his quarters and hadn't knocked again to get him moving.

"I sent your reply. There'll be a dragon to take you to Ista Weyr after the mid-day meal," the tall, lean Harper said with a smile. His silvered hair was still damp from his morning washing, but for once in his life lines of sublimated worry and age weren't etched as deeply as they usually were in his face. He looked completely awake and insanely chipper for this time of the morning.

"That was quick and efficient. Thank you. Are you on your way to breakfast?"

"No, Silvina brought mine up, so I've eaten. I did, however, want to go over any instructions you may have for the rehearsals and classes I'll be taking over in your absence. You'll have three full days before you're expected to return here again—"

"—that should do," Domick said.

"—but as you'll be in a Weyr in the first place, you undoubtedly can arrange transportation back if you need more time. Just let me know how much more time you need. And _tomorrow_ is a Rest Day, Domick. Feel free to use one of those other days as a Rest Day instead if you need. _Two_ days to evaluate this Apprentice, not three. You'll be at the most beautiful Weyr on Pern, you should enjoy a bit of it—"

"You know, I _have_ left the Hall on Craft business before, Robinton," Domick said in a dry manner, and reached back to close the door to his quarters. They could walk and talk at the same time, so he began to walk towards the dining room.

Robinton realized he'd been giving Domick orders much like he would have given them to Sebell or Piemur, and he gave a half-smile of apology and changed verbal tracks even as he began to follow Domick down the hall. "I'm looking forward to teaching again, which you might find surprising."

"You're _not_ passing it off to Menolly?"

The Masterharper shrugged. "Time will tell. Things can and do come up, but next sevenday isn't looking very busy for me for all the ado going on yesterday. It's very odd—nobody seems to be up to anything interesting," and he gave another quick grin, although Domick wasn't sure if he were happy nobody was plotting anything, or that whatever people _were_ plotting, it was evidently more of a challenge for him to uncover.

Robinton. Domick shook his dark-haired head to himself. "I see. Well, just in case you've forgotten that upon stealing my rehearsals and classes you're also stealing all of my problem-people, you probably want to look out for—"

#

After the mid-day meal, with thoughts in his head the last time an _unusual_ Apprentice had come to the Hall (that had been Menolly, many turns ago), Domick approached Silvina and told her a bit about this peculiar scenario. There'd been some talk amongst the Masters about how awkwardly Menolly's first few days at the Hall had gone, and while Domick was of the opinion that Robinton had been testing her and the Harper Hall both to see what came about, he felt that unnecessary in this case. He wanted to make sure Silvina knew ahead of time they might have to make...special accommodations.

"An ex-dragonman? Really?" Silvina asked once he filled her in. . She considered this, and handed him some travel supplies from bins and shelves as she did so. Domick took them. "That would be...interesting. To have in the Hall. That poor man. What's his name again?"

"Isenhard told me it was Woadred."

"Hm. What was his dragonrider name? W'red? Have we heard of him before now?"

"I haven't the faintest," Domick admitted. "It could have been anything; they don't always return to their birth names...afterwards. And 'Woadred' has a bit of a depressing sound to it that sounds purposeful. Robinton may know what his rider or birth names were," Domick added. Actually, it was probable that the Harper did.

Silvina clucked and shook her head. "I wouldn't necessarily go bothering Robinton about it; he doesn't seem in the best of moods today."

Domick blinked. "Is that so? He was upbeat, in a major chord, when I saw him this morning."

"Well, he closed a door in _my_ face. Granted, he did it with a smile and a kiss, but he doesn't normally condone that sort of rudeness unless something quite unsettling has settled on his lap."

Thinking about how sure Robinton had been of his light work-load when talking of taking his classes, Domick gathered the last things Silvina was holding out to him, and grunted. "Something doesn't add up. Ah, well, there's always something that doesn't add up with him. And if you peer too closely at it, he flatters your quick mind and gets you so deep into it yourself you can't get out again. Thank you for your assistance, Silvina."

"My pleasure. And if you do bring this ex-dragonman in, see if you can get your hands on his measurements. He'll be considerably older than our usual Apprentices, so we may need them if nothing's of his size in the stores. The last time we brought in an unusual case it was Menolly, and the poor girl ran around in rags because Robinton hadn't the wit to tell me she only had the one decent outfit."

"Of course. I will do that if necessary."

#

Ista was every bit as beautiful as Robinton had promised, situated as it was at the edge of Big Bay and the island. Had Domick not tended to travel with an entire orchestra and choir of supporting Harpers most times he stepped out of the Hall (which was only practical when some Lord or another felt he had something to celebrate) he would have promised himself a visit more often. Isenhard wouldn't mind at all; he loved people.

Hm. Had Menolly ever been here? Of course she had, but had she spoken to Isenhard? Domick tended to prefer writing his own lyrics when lyrics were needed, but Menolly was more prone to collaboration and perhaps the pair could come up with something...he'd have to suggest it to her.

Speaking of Isenhard—Domick squinted down as dragonrider M'red and brown Velth flew them down into the bowl where they would land, and yes, Isenhard was there, his eyes shielded with a hand as he waited for them to land.

Which they did, of course.

Domick gathered his belongings, dismounted, and thanked the dragonrider and dragon both (the former gave him a curt nod before the pair rose into the air again). Then he strode across the black sand to greet the other Harper.

"Master Domick! Thank you so very, _very_ much for coming." Harper Isenhard was a man of rather striking colors: pale blond hair, skin the color of klah, and blue eyes not remarkable in their own right, but startling between the white-blond hair and rich dark skin. Turns in Ista had only deepened these contrasts, making his hair a little more ephemeral in color, and his skin burnished deeper. He also had a tall, broad-shouldered build, and a lyrical tenor speaking voice; Master Shonogar had been absolutely _devastated_ to learn Isenhard could _only_ carry a tune in a bucket...or that is, to Shonogar's unique frame of mind, with any instrument _but_ his natural voice.

"My pleasure, Isen. I don't get out of the Hall nearly enough. You look good; how many other people than me have told you that today?" he added in an attempt to puncture any vanity the other Harper might gain from his complement. Isenhard had thrived it seemed in this island Weyr.

"Not as many as you'd think once the betting on how dark I'd get—or if my hair would become so light I'd float away—died down."

"I see. And where is our friend Woadred? And what was his dragonrider name? Silvina was asking. W'red?"

"Ah, his name was D'red—and as far as I heard, no pun intended there when he originally assumed it, although his friends used to give him a bloody tough of a time for that name. His dragon was blue Nariath."

"So tell me about Woadred, formerly known as D'red." Domick said. Had he been hasty deciding the "woe" and "dread" were melancholy?

"I will, but let's get inside first. It's only going to get hotter today."

The inside of Ista Weyr was indeed markedly cooler than the bowl, and Domick could see how that would be a fine thing on warm days. Isenhard settled them down on a stone bench inside. It seemed to be situated just perfectly to catch breezes blowing in and out of the Weyr.

"Woadred." Isenhard sighed gustily as they sat. "He was a Harper Apprentice for about two turns, in southern Nerat. As far as I understand it, his Master was just about to send him to the main Hall at Fort due to his skills when a greenrider came along and Searched him. So, instead, he came to Ista when he was twelve, Impressed blue Nariath the first Hatching he stood as a candidate at, and was a dragonman for eleven turns until he was very unlucky a turn and a half ago. Nariath exited _between_ directly into an unusually large patch of thread during threadfall. Woadred—D'red at the time—didn't get a single scratch or score on himself, as the bulk of his blue had shielded him, but Nariath was scored in the gut so severely that he went _between_ to die after getting D'red safely to the ground. Woadred," Isenhard corrected himself. Then he continued briskly.

"His friends tell me Woadred was a quiet, sturdy, solid rider before his tragedy. At least in the air. When no thread was falling, he and his dragon took an unusual interest in matters outside the Weyr, although I hear it told Nariath was the instigator many of the times, and Woadred just followed him around to clean up the loose ends. I'm told he was a more-than-decent swordsman too. Woadred, that is—never seen a dragon wield a sword," and the harper chuckled before sobering again. "I didn't know him all that well back then so I don't have personal experience there. Last Winter our Healer, Master Morthin, pulled me aside since Woadred had cut himself twice on the knives in the kitchens when he was set to dicing food for meals."

"They gave him knives?"

Isenhard shrugged. "Nobody ever took his belt knife, and all he has to do is tap a rider on the shoulder and ask for a short ride _between_ if he wanted to exit the world. I'm told the cutting was due to inattention, although..." and he grimaced, "There have been a few other incidents. I'll get to those later. But they asked me to speak to him, so I did...sort of...and I began to feel out what he remembered about Harpering. He remembered a good deal, actually, for someone only under instruction for two Turns, but he's uncomfortable with being the center of attention by playing or singing, and when he does pick up an instrument, he'll stop playing at random moments, only to begin again exactly where he left off as if he never paused. So it's not comforting listening. I first set him to re-arranging a few simple songs, however, and he did quite well at those...the pauses don't show, you see. All you get is a complete, finished product. So I asked him if he did anything original, and he eventually played me a piece. It had some errors, as I'd expect from one who ended his Harper education at twelve, but the core was sound, so I sat with him daily for an hour or two, and he started producing slate upon slate of things after that. He's rarely finished anything original, they tend to be very long, and they've gotten very complex...although that may be because I was foolish and gave him a hide on advanced composition markings, and he decided to try every single one, even the ones I've never seen _you_ use more than once every other Turn."

"So he's undisciplined," Domick said.

"Or just lost in finding his voice," Isenhard said. "Unsure how he wants his songs to end. Personality-wise, he's still quiet, but less sturdy and reliable. His mind seems to freeze and shut down for no apparent reason, although I think it may be due to still living in the Weyr. And because I've run out of things to teach him—it's become more difficult to distract him out of his brooding. That's why I'd like to get him out of here. I think that if we don't..." and here Isenhard paused, and licked his lips, unwilling to actually voice the possibility of suicide. Instead, after a moment of silence, he went on. "He's had no unusual outbursts, though, after the initial shock turned into numbness, and he's had no interactions with others that are problematic because he's unhinged. He has some interactions that others describe as uncomfortable, mostly because as I said his brain seems to freeze and he loses track of what's going on compared to whatever's going on in his head, and it's a bit spooky."

"I see. Tell me about the 'incidents'," Domick prompted.

"He's become clumsy, or he's lost all common sense fear of hard, sharp, or hot objects a typical person comes into contact with on a day to day basis...or he occasionally inflicts pain on himself. I can't tell which one it is. It's fairly sporadic and mild, and unless you watch him as closely as I have and the Healers have I doubt people will notice the occasional cut or burn or bruise on his hands as anything other than an accident. Young men do accumulate a wide variety of knocks and scrapes. But I thought you should know, in case it's more than it seems. Perhaps a Healer at the Healer Hall can tell. I _have_ caught him staring at the wounds, which is why I wonder if some were self-inflicted. Or," and Isenhard spread his hands, indicating it was a mystery, "he may just be wondering why his physical shell is bandaged. He doesn't pay much attention to his body other than washing and clothing it."

"I see," Domick said, thinking about this carefully. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"He seems reluctant to start tasks sometimes when people are looking at him or are in the room. I've never found it a problem, since he'll get it all done neat and quick once your back is turned, but it could look like a disciplinary problem in the Hall to other Masters and Apprentices. Overall, he's an odd one, but I've been working at exercising his mind which is sound and might even be quick-witted if he ever learns to deal with his dragon being gone, and I have hopes that once he gets moving more and more will come together for him. I've had him for about a half-Turn and I've seen significant improvement...until I stopped being able to challenge him adequately. And I wouldn't have approached you if I didn't think there was hope." For a brief moment, Isenhard smiled at Domick. "I know you hate people wasting your time."

Domick grunted, not fully listening. "Where is he now?"

"He's waiting in the teaching room."

"Let's talk to him."

Isenhard nodded.

#

"Woadred," Master Isenhard said, pushing open the door to the Weyr's teaching room. "Master Domick is here, from the Harper Hall. He'd like to talk to you, as we've discussed." He held the door open for Domick to enter.

Ista Weyr's teaching room was fairly large, and filled with tables and benches for students on the right side, and shelves with neatly filed hides on the left, with a clear area in the center that could be used to gather children into a circle to sing their Ballads.

As they entered, a young man rose from where he had been sitting stiffly. He was about Domick's height, and stocky like the Composition Master, but a little deeper in the chest and somewhat more developed across the shoulders. Aside from that, the thing Domick noted first was his eyes. Not the color, but the set and sadness of them, far too mature for a man of his scant Turns. Oddly enough, they reminded him of moments when Masterharper Robinton was caught between modes, fleetingly and without a mask, and his face reflected signs of stress and age.

Woadred wasn't between modes though, although if he had any social awareness left, he probably was on his best behavior as people usually were when life-altering decisions were being made. "Thank you for considering my entry into the Harper Hall, sir," he said, in a light tenor that held little in the way of inflection or color.

"I'll leave you two alone to chat," Isenhard said. "And I'll pick up a pot of klah."

"Very good. Thank you, Master Isenhard," Domick said. Then he turned to study Woadred again. The man was still standing politely, so Domick waved a hand at the bench. "Let us sit."

Woadred lowered himself to the bench with stiffness again, which Domick assumed to be psychological and not physical since Isenhard had told him the man hadn't been scored himself in the threadfall that had ultimately killed his dragon.

Domick sat next to him, with his back to the table, and crossed his leg to rest his left ankle on his right knee. "Tell me about yourself," he proclaimed. Then he waited patiently, as even a quick-witted, quick-mouth scamp was prone to flounder on such an open-ended question, and this man was neither.

There was silence. He expected silence, though. The silence stretched on and on, and out of the corner of his eye he could see that Woadred _was_ looking at him, but making no move to speak yet.

Domick waited. The harsh verbal prods to action he would have used normally had no place here. As Robinton had said...he wasn't as immune to situations and context as the youths he taught would normally think.

"What would you like to know?" Woadred finally said slowly.

Domick wondered if the young man had just frozen, or if he'd picked through scores of words before coming to that simple question. "Whatever you feel comfortable telling me. Whatever is relevant." He glanced at the man, keeping his expression neutral and cool, dark eyes to haunted ones. "You're old enough to understand why I might want to know about you from your _own_ mouth in addition to what others have told me. Also, intelligent enough to know that people _do_ talk, and it's a Harper's job to listen."

More silence, as Woadred considered his words, and tried to formulate his answer.

Domick unsheathed his belt knife, and took to cleaning his nails.

"What did they tell you?" Woadred asked. Again, the question was mostly devoid of clues that would hint at Woadred's inner emotions and motivations.

Domick shrugged, and swirled his knife around vaguely. "They say, 'poor lad', and shake their heads sorrowfully. They say you write songs with no endings, but shouldn't be trusted around vegetables. They say, 'he's clumsy, or at least we hope so' because nobody really wants to think about why you might decide to hurt yourself on purpose when there are convenient riders who would take you _between_ if you asked for it. They say, 'he's doing better than before', but give warnings that people find you unsettling. They say 'he used to be reliable and quiet, and now he's just quiet'." Domick applied the knife to his fingernails again. "There's always more to a man than what 'they' say, but he has to _say_ it for anyone to know."

"I am..." Woadred said, but trailed off. Not as long, however. "I don't know what I am." His eyes fell to the stone floor beneath their feet, and unfocused, as if staring past the stone.

"Fair enough," Domick said. "Most people don't know what they are. What do you want to _be_? Or do?"

"I would like to be a compo..." and he seemed to edit himself, showing he indeed wasn't dull, to boast of being a composer to the Harper Hall's Composition Master himself. "I _try_ to write songs. I like it."

"Without endings."

"I don't understand what endings are. Yet."

Domick felt himself suddenly smile that that response. "I like that. 'I write songs without endings, because I don't understand what endings are.' I like that better than the version 'they' say."

"You have a nice smile," Woadred said, without any connection to the previous conversation.

That drew Domick's brows together like miniature thunderheads meeting. Then the line eased. "If you come to the Hall, 'they'll' tell you I don't smile." He knew how to weave an unexpected melody back into the main composition. He'd have to teach Woadred that. Even in music new to the ear, unexpected noises outside of the framework you established stood out. The trick was to use that oddness, rather than let it use you as an example of a creator who couldn't create properly.

Woadred laughed. The sound was halting, soft, rusty, and ended almost as suddenly as it began, but it was a laugh.

"So. You don't know _what_ you are, but you write songs without endings because you don't know what endings _are_. Yet. Do you want to be taught? Or would you rather keep your songs for yourself? Not everyone who sings is a Singer. Not everyone who harps is a Harper—else the Hall would be filled to the brim with little old aunties and frail uncles, harping away at everyone." Domick made little gabbing gestures with the hand not holding his knife. "Not everyone who creates is a Composer. If you came to the Hall, you'd be expected to invest in yourself. You'd be expected to complete the tasks and duties of an Apprentice, even though at this point you're probably at least ten turns older than the eldest. Nobody can afford for you to come and realize a few sevendays or months you do not want to exert the effort on yourself that we will be investing in you. However, in return, you'd have a home and haven for however long it takes to complete your Apprenticeship, food, shelter, and material for the mind, and the Hall is structured in its days in nights, a structure that would replace the one that you no longer fit into here," and he swirled the tip of his belt knife to indicate the Weyr at large. "Is this something you want? Or _may_ want? If you're unsure, we can wait until you are sure in your answer. There is no time limit; I have approximately a thousand different tasks this spring that the Masterharper is currently handling for me while I'm here, and I can keep myself occupied until you decide."

Woadred blinked. "The Masterharper took on your duties so you could come speak with me?" There was a bit of stress on the word "Masterharper".

Ha. So this was yet another man who responded to Robinton's almost-magical reputation. Domick didn't quite understand the awe, but perhaps that was because he'd seen Robinton flapping around the Hall like a madman with an unhinged hungry baby firelizard on his arm—Menolly hadn't _quite_ prevented all of those incidents in her early days at the Hall. He'd seen Robinton gobbling breakfast while wearing nothing but his bedfurs just the other morning. _That_ was de-mystifying if anything was. He'd also seen Robinton indulge in too much wine at dinner more than once. It sort of wiped the magic away, when you saw your Craftmaster walk sedately and carefully away...yet still making a direct line for the absolute nearest toilet. Some people thought Robinton couldn't get drunk, or his drunkenness was always a sham, like Shonogar's miraculous ability to instantly fall asleep. Domick knew he still could, and badly enough that his body wanted to expel the alcohol from his body at great velocities.

Still, even if people overstated his positive qualities greatly, and ignored his flaws, Robinton _was_ a good man and for the most part good Masterharper. "Master Robinton strongly believes in giving people chances.

"As for _myself_, I do not believe in denying one solely on the basis that the Apprentice involved was victim of a tragedy he could not control, or on the assumption that you'll make too much trouble in my life if I take you on as an Apprentice. You risked life and limb for me in the course of your duties. It's only fair of me to come here to speak to you, if you are interested in becoming a Harper."

"I...never flew over Fort," Woadred said.

"Irrelevant. I do travel occasionally, and if you didn't ever protect me and my hide directly, you protected one of my blue-clad extended family of Harper kin, several times over."

Woadred was silent.

In that silence, Isenhard discretely appeared again, and Domick suspected him of eavesdropping at the door so that he wouldn't enter at an inopportune time. "I've a fresh pot of klah," Isenhard offered them.

Domick put his knife away now that he had something else to occupy him, and accepted a mug of the beverage, sipping at it timidly until he determined it was just the right temperature, and not too hot. Then he twisted and set it on the table behind him. "Well?"

Woadred had refused klah, and was still sitting on the bench, staring at him. "May I have a day to think about your words?"

"You may," Domick said.

Woadred turned to Isenhard. "May I go?"

Isenhard flicked his eyes towards Domick.

Domick shrugged.

"Off with you then, lad," Isenhard said, and patted Woadred on the shoulder, even though he wasn't all _that_ much older than the ex-dragonrider.

Woadred abruptly went, without any extra words.

Domick didn't get upset over his rudeness, or that he had more or less dismissed himself when he no longer wanted to talk anymore. Woadred had laughed during their conversation, which he suspected was far more significant. As was Woadred's idea that he didn't "understand endings". Perhaps that was the root of why he persisted in living after his dragon had perished. Some stubborn, far-buried streak of optimism. No understanding of endings...just of beginnings. Domick shook his head. No. He was probably over-thinking it, as he liked a good turn of phrase as much as any other Harper did. Whimsy was nice and all, but he doubted he was at the core of things after a single conversation with the man. And thinking of that, Woadred was definitely a man, not lad. "Lad?" he said to Isenhard.

Isenhard looked embarrassed. "You forget how old he is sometimes; he used to be quite passive."

Domick grunted. "No offense intended, Isen, but if that outlook is common, perhaps another reason to get him out of the Weyr. Menolly's the same age as he more or less, and Robinton has her handling all sorts of responsibilities."

"True. And no offense taken."

#

Woadred avoided Domick for a day and a half. Domick didn't exactly mind having unexpected free time to wander about the lovely Weyr as he pleased, admiring the black diamond sands, and the riot of rich blues and greens of all shades where the inner lake of the Weyr flowed into the sea (and of dragons of all colors sunning themselves on those shores), but as the day passed its midpoint on the third day, he began to become a little irritated, only because it had originally felt to him that Robinton had over-scheduled him time for this excursion, yet he might need to extend it if the ex-dragonrider was genuinely still contemplating his future.

Yes, that would be the trick, if Woadred came to the Hall. Balancing the ex-dragonman's needs and inner issues with a sense of discipline. Too far one way and he'd be coddling the man, and if the man wanted to be coddled, Domick had already told him not to bother coming to the Harper Hall. And of course, any leeway Domick gave to Woadred due to his...condition...would be judged harshly by hundreds of bitter Apprentices Domick had strictly disciplined over the turns. And that sort of bitterness would be turned upon Woadred, eventually. Yet if he maintained discipline too far the other way, he'd probably break the man unintentionally.

When Domick visited Isenhard again to see if Woadred had made himself known to a familiar figure first, Isenhard gave in, and passed Domick some of Woadred's unfinished compositions. Domick had wanted Woadred to give them to him himself, but he _did_ have to get a handle on the man's musicality before bringing him into the Hall. So he took the hides with resignation, and spent time at the edge of the lake in the sun to read them.

They were passable. They had that raw, uncut-gem quality. The potential. The drive to create was there, but the means and method had to be refined; the man was an experimenter, and used a lot of minor keys and staccato beats to express himself. The worst of it would be extremely difficult even for Harpers to appreciate, tortured and convoluted. Domick liked some of this, but he also know what "they" said about his own works. The _best_ of Woadred's Compositions smoothed out to have a few strains of catchy melodies, although unlike Menolly he wasn't quite as adept at recognizing those phrases of brilliance and bringing them to triumphant fruition. But that just took practice and guidance. Even with Menolly, Robinton had bent a hand towards refining what she had started, before sending those tunes out.

And like Woadred had said, he didn't seem to see where the endings went, and his tunes meandered on when things should have been put to bed.

Some time later, when Domick was poring over a slate, itching to have some sort of material on him so that he could make corrections, a shadow fell on him to block the light. He looked up, and found Woadred standing there.

"Sir?" Woadred said. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

Domick raised a sardonic eyebrow high. "I don't know; do I? Perhaps Masterharper Robinton has masses of free time available to continue covering my duties at the Hall. What do you think?"

Woadred stared at him, whatever thoughts he had about Domick's response hidden behind that prematurely aged face and odd frozen pause.

Domick sighed. "Sit, Apprentice. That was my convoluted way of saying, 'Why yes, I have plenty of time.' I've been waiting for you most of the day."

The ex-dragonman lowered himself stiffly to the grass beside Domick.

"Are you put off by my normal demeanor?" Domick asked. It wasn't a factor he would usually care about, as Apprentices had to put up with whomever they were assigned to, but again, this was not your usual Apprentice.

"I've had worse, from men more intimidating than you."

Domick's eyebrows went up, then he laughed. Not many dared to tell him the truth like _that_.

"And you are justified, sir. How long did I keep you waiting." It _was_ a question, but the ex-dragonman's odd tonality made it sound like a statement.

Domick sobered and gave him a sidelong glance. "I had planned two full days in Ista. I saw you once immediately upon my arrival, and I am to leave this evening if my plans do not change." He pointed a finger at the sky. "You can read the sun as well as or better than I, I imagine."

Woadred squinted up at the sky, then nodded. "I am sorry sir. I've fallen out of the habit of watching the time."

"Yes, I noticed. What are you trying to evoke here?" Domick stabbed a finger at a five-bar section on the hide he held.

The man leaned over to look at what Domick was pointing at. "An emotion."

"Which emotion?" Domick asked, watching Woadred breathe in and out steadily, like one of Fanderal's toys. Moving, yet motionless.

"If I had words to explain it, I'm not sure I would have put it in notes."

"If I have to _ask_ for words to explain it, you _failed_ in putting it into notes," Domick countered. "We'll need to get you to sit down with Master Menolly."

Silence. Then, "—of the firelizards?"

"None other." More firelizards around than woman some days.

"'Don't leave me alone,'" Woadred said, without much inflection.

If Domick hadn't already brought up Menolly himself it would have been queer to hear the man quote that line without context. He frowned.

"It's a truthful song. I see your point. I'm coming to the Hall?"

"That still depends on you," Domick said gruffly, realizing that the moment the man had appeared more or less safe and sound, he'd mentally stuffed the man into a file called, "mine" and began thinking about how to fit him in around spring rehearsal schedules and the like.

"I would like to. However, I don't believe I can act like an Apprentice."

"You don't want to do Apprentice tasks?" Domick asked cautiously, looking for clarification.

"I have no issues with the tasks. But..." and he paused, staring out over the lake.

Domick waited, feeling much more patient now he knew where the man was than he did before when there had been no sign of him.

"—I have no fear of authority," Woadred finally said, tilting his head to the side. "I remember jumping when my Master said jump, as a lad, because I had many fears and no understanding of pain, and what would or wouldn't trigger it."

In short, Domick figured, he wouldn't act like a boy. Probably more like a Journeyman; independent and trusted to do what he said he would do, or even a Master, at the peak of his career and unafraid for his position. Except in this case, the position and duties would be those of an Apprentice. He just might have a certain tactlessness socially when interacting with his rank superiors, borne out of a lack of fear of them.

Domick supposed after losing your dragon, there wasn't much left to fear in the world at all. And he had already seen how the man acted around _him_, including some of the social and rank deficiencies. "Very well. We will work with what happens; some Masters may have expectations different than my own."

Woadred bowed his head.

"Gather up your things, including your compositional work; make sure you have sufficient clothing. I don't see why you wouldn't have, but that was an order from the Headwoman of the Harper Hall, so I'm passing it on. Will taking a dragon to the Harper Hall be an issue for you?" Domick kept his voice neutral and calm.

"No," Woadred said, more quickly than Domick had expected.

"Fine." Domick started to gather up the various bits of score he had been reviewing here by the lake. "We'll leave at sunset." Then he got to his feet, and reached down to offer Woadred a hand up.

Woadred took it, and pulled himself to his feet displaying his characteristic stiffness. Then he tried to remove his hand, but when Domick didn't let it go, an expression of mild surprise crossed his face.

"Although it won't be quite official until the Masterharper says it, let me be the first to welcome you to the Harper Hall," Domick said with a half-smile on his face.

"Thank you, sir."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Master Domick had intended to keep a close eye on his newest apprentice, but even though Master Robinton was the Masterharper, there were still a hundred different things that had come up in the short span of three days that Robinton in that sensitive and diplomatic way of his _refrained_ from using his absolute power to solve out of deference for Domick's toes. Which, granted, _could_ be a little sensitive when people chose to tread on them. So Domick supposed he wasn't exactly in the right to be wroth about it. That didn't mean he _wasn't_.

"I did boil the mouthpieces, though," Robinton offered helpfully.

"Actually, sir, I did that," Menolly said, and gave her Master a fond and tolerant look.

"Shush. You are my beautiful and talented right arm. What you do reflects on me as if it were my own action. Or isn't that what we tell Piemur when he lets his temper get the best of him?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

Domick raised his own eyes to the heavens and wondered what the world was coming to if his own Craftmaster didn't want to make important decisions.

So Domick initially put Woadred into Silvina's care, then shuttled him off to Master Morshal for basic assessments in musical theory, and to Master Jerint to see what instrument-making skills he had or lacked, and then it was bedtime, and the next day Master Shonogar wanted to see this ex-dragonman in case he accidentally had a voice (he did not), as did Master Robinton (although for different reasons).

Therefore, it wasn't until the third day that Domick had a breather to take Woadred to his currently-empty rehearsal room.

That is to say, Domick had just enough time to _enter_ the rehearsal room, sit down on one of the couches under a window, and take two breaths before Woadred spoke.

"I think it's better that I left the Hall, Master Domick."

Domick stared at him, then ran a weary hand down his face, and spoke. "No," he said.

"But—"

"No buts. You horrified Master Morshal, dismayed Masters Shonogar and Jerint, and intrigued Master Robinton."

Woadred was a little smarter than the usual apprentices; he stopped talking, and did not spew forth a torrent of protests. Or perhaps he really believed he had done wrong.

He couldn't be that silly, could he? Domick studied the direct, un-fearful gaze.

Nah.

Domick tapped his fingers on the arm of the thickly padded leather couch, back and forth, and eyed the ex-dragonrider. It was soothing that the other man had some wits to him regardless of his loss, but it was also disconcerting that Domick couldn't rely on him to react in a way that let him finish his dry little joke properly.

So he shrugged, and restlessly tugged at his tunic, before crossing his arms, and finished his joke. "Which is all as I _expected_. Master Morshal is a champion of predictability, routine, and habit, and by your nature, you are different from our other apprentices, as you know. A deviation, unpredictable, and _not_ a habit. He does not appreciate you. Masters Shonogar and Jerint are devoted to their respective specialties; you're worse than useless to them as you are...not _only_ do you know nothing about singing properly or making instruments, they'll have to find someone to get started on your remedial tutoring. Can you take instruction from a boy? Because with your current skill-set, it would be insulting to have a Journeyman tutor you, yet as an apprentice, you _must_ pick up some modicum of ability in those two areas to allow _me_ to educate you in the specialty you were brought here for. A Harper that can only sing one note is useless. As for the rest of your evaluation...Master Robinton is Master Robinton, and thinks Master Robinton thoughts, and _I_ have not had a moment until now to assess you." Domick frowned at Woadred. "You want to leave already? _Why?_"

Woadred said, "I don't see a place for me here."

Domick narrowed his eyes, and tapped his fingers against the leather again. "So the hall has worked its magic on you so quickly that you've found the proper ending for it? When endings were impossible for you before? There was _never_ a _place_ here for you, Woadred. The Harper Hall, regardless of its alliances with the Weyrs, doesn't have a steady stream of people like you that the path for you to take is well-worn and smooth. And, if you _wanted_ a smooth path, Isenhard never would have contacted me, and we never would have met. Your Weyr had the smooth path. And in some cases, a very short path to an abrupt ending. But that's _not_ your ending, so you are here, to learn what your ending _is_. Now...what's the _real_ issue?"

Silence. Then Woadred, without asking permission of his Master, slowly lowered himself to sit on the edge of the stone table before the couch.

Master Domick settled himself in for a long wait, slouching back on the couch with his arms across the back, and he propped his heels on the table, next to Woadred, something that would have most Apprentices hopping away from his feet as if they expected a swift boot to the rear—which wouldn't be entirely out of the question for an impertinent apprentice. Woadred was oblivious to the subtle social prod. Lack of fear indeed.

"...I can't see myself spending the rest of my life doing nothing. Making songs, but _doing_ nothing."

Having steeled himself for patience was perhaps the only thing that prevented Domick from giving the lad a clout and a sore ear. As it were, it hurt more than he expected to hear such words come out of a dragonrider's—even if ex-dragonrider's—mouth. Strange how deeply reverence for dragons and their riders went, sometimes. He didn't _actually_ care what opinions ignorant people had about his craft and his role in it, dragonrider or not, he reminded himself.

"Keep such sentiments out of Master Robinton or Master Menolly's hearing if you want to keep yourself in their good graces," Domick said, when he was sure he could school himself to nothing more than a dour tone.

Woadred suddenly flushed. "I—I'm sorry. You've...been kind. I didn't mean to insult you, or the work you do. Or the work _they_ do. Menolly's songs are lovely. It's just that—" and he lapsed into one of his silences.

"Go on. Might as well tell me the whole of it so I can be fair and know all of the details before you're punished for your lack of respect."

Woadred turned redder. "When I accepted, I was going from...doing nothing, to...doing nothing." His voice turned a little hoarse from stress; he was aware his opinion wasn't a good one, but was still determined in being honest in relaying it. "I didn't think of it that way at the time, the future...was just blank."

"And three days later it's no longer blank?"

Silence, and Woadred's flushed cheeks as he stared at a spot over Domick's right ear without expression.

"Or perhaps one of those things that needs a song to express itself?" Domick asked, a touch snidely.

The man's eyes slid over to meet his for a second, pale gray, and startlingly human, before the life seemed to melt away again and he resumed his study of the large flagstones of the Harper Hall's internal walls.

Domick sighed and started to pack away his bruised sensibilities in favor of something more helpful. "We currently have three Harpers that compose most of the prominent work the Harper Hall produces each turn: myself, Master Menolly, and Master Robinton. And of course there are scores of Apprentices and Journeyman who occasionally produce something, if I may dare say it, 'useful', when striving for their promotions to Journeyman or Master, but for whom composing new songs is only a minor aspect of their duties. Of the three of us that can compose prolifically on demand, Masters Robinton and Menolly have additional duties that probably conform more closely to whatever your notions of 'doing' something encompass. I am the only one of us who could be considered to be doing 'nothing' additional of worth with my time." Domick's mouth quirked, and Woadred didn't meet his eyes. "While you _were_ accepted into the Hall on the basis of your fledgling composition skills, and not, say, your diplomatic or teaching skills, I would urge you to look a little further beyond the tip of your nose than tomorrow's short-term talent assessments and music exercises and investigate what other types of skills you may want to cultivate in order to make yourself eligible for the kind of duties that you suspect will fulfill your need to be doing 'something'. Just because you're my apprentice now doesn't mean you're doomed to fill my boring shoes until the end of time."

"I did not intend it that way."

Domick snorted. "Of course you _did_. Isenhard told me all about your adventures outside the Weyr. You just don't want me to be offended by it. I suppose Harpering is not as immediately thrilling as wiping thread from the skies, knowing each bit consumed by flame is another life saved, or another field that will make it to harvest. Or as thrilling as engaging in swordplay with the Holdless. Yes, I heard about that. But we Harpers, thanks to Master Robinton, have our fingers in so many pots that dismissing us and all the myriad duties we fulfill as 'nothing' is short-sighted indeed. If you actively seek opportunity instead of just hoping it will just fall in your lap like it has—if I may be presumptuous—at least two times already in your life with your initial Apprenticeship and then your Impression, you'll be as fit as a fiddle just about up to the time you begin cursing yourself for wishing your life was more interesting and noteworthy."

Woadred stared at him.

A frown appeared on Domick's face and he rubbed at his lips. "I must be spending too much time with the Harper; you need his kind of charm to be able to carry off that sort of phrase with a straight face while wearing Harper blue. 'Fit as a fiddle'," he repeated sourly and snorted again.

"You have charm," Woadred said.

Domick stared at him, then burst into laughter. "You'll do better with thinking about what I said than flattery to make up for bruising my ego, Woadred. So. Are you going to stay in the Hall tonight, or should I take some time to decide if I want to turn a blind eye if you decide to run away and go your own way, or instead ask some firelizards to let the Harper and I both know if you set a toenail outside of your quarters?"

"I did not intend to run away," Woadred demurred. "If you did not give me permission I would have stayed."

"Is that so?" Domick asked, doubt in his voice.

Woadred nodded.

Domick narrowed his eyes, but decided to take him at his word. "Good," Domick said, drawing his feet off the table and turning their discussion back to business. "Because in that case, I do _not_ give permission. Let's go get some of your compositions again and go over them so I can get you settled in with a real schedule, and perhaps the glimmer of opportunity will shine a little brighter, even as we accomplish _nothing_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The pulse of the Harper Hall was not the same as that of the Weyr. In the Weyr, activity was three-dimensional, and, more often than Weyrleader D'ram would have wished, frequently four-dimensional. The Harper Hall was decidedly two dimensional, with Harpers and Healers trudging down halls and up steps, but never taking to the air. Obviously.

Woadred considered writing a song about that, but then considered the intense effort Domick had put into teaching him the error of assuming Harpers did nothing, and set that idea aside. Even if Master Domick would not be offended by the humor in such an idea, Woadred had a dark feeling if he were to write about Harpers flying, and he actually stuck an ending on it as Master Domick so wished, the ending would be about the consequences of what happened when a flying Harper fell.

Suddenly, a rising noise began to roll through the Hall, catching his attention away from the brooding that beckoned, and then the heart of the Hall beat once with a discordant clanging peal, spilling crafters down corridors like blood through veins, men and women (although mostly men) scurrying to the evening meal.

"Will you get out of the way?" someone told Woadred in frustration as he stood there transfixed by the activity, and Woadred caught sight of a Journeyman badge.

"Move, move, move!" a lithe Apprentice shouted, and she and three of her friends darted around Woadred like a shoal of fish around a rock, their arms loaded down with slates and gitars and pipes.

He stepped out of the middle of the corridor, and put his back to the wall, and watched a seemingly never-ending mass of humanity stream by him.

And then, with equal lack of warning, the hallway was silent again.

He found his heart was thudding from adrenaline. In the Weyr, such frantic activity occurred only just before and after threadfall, and on a much longer timeframe—a couple of times a sevenday. But here, in the Harper Hall, it occurred several times a _day_, as lectures and rehearsals ended and the crafters rushed off to the next place they were scheduled to be as if an enraged and hungry wher was hot on their heels.

Would he, too, soon be rushing about in such a hurry? It seemed so _pointless_. Nobody would die if a class did not start on time. And yet, as much as it was mind-boggling to actually _see_ children and young people rushing to attend a Harper's teaching sessions—Woadred remembered clearly his overt eagerness to learn his ballads being such an _anomaly_ as a child—it was also frightening, somehow, to see learning distilled into a dedicated, knife-edged pursuit. His time at his Master's side, prior to...to...prior to...at the Weyr...

...he let that memory slip by, lest other memories taint it...

His time _prior_ at his Master's side had been leisurely, both of them traveling around Nerat mostly by foot and sometimes by runner, not always getting to this or that minor Hold when expected due to the weather or threadfall or _something_. And the training and learning and fighting in the Weyr had been fast-paced—as had been the play—but it was punctuated by long periods of slow and steady work. Washing his beloved blue Nariath, fixing fighting straps and leathers, sleeping away grief when a comrade passed, sleeping away wounds or just sheer exhaustion after a Fall, and the slow, steady flights as a sweeprider eyes fixed on the ground far below.

He had a suspicion Nariath would have been fascinated by all of this newness, and felt a deep pang of grief that he could not share this experience. And a pang of regret. They _should_ have transferred to Fort Weyr for a while, follow that green Nariath had his eyes on, and looked for assignments to the Harper Hall or Fort Hold. Woadred had promised, once, to show Nariath what he had been destined for, prior to Impression, but they'd never gotten around to it, or to visiting any major Crafthall really.

And now he'd _never_ be able to show his dragon _this_.

Another pang of grief rose, and Woadred leaned against the wall, his eyes closing and his throat becoming tight and thick. The edges of the slate Domick had marked up earlier cut into his palm. He shouldn't _be_ here. The Harper Hall wasn't his path—it hadn't been since Impression. He should be back in the Weyr, waiting to meet Nariath again.

And yet, his beautiful blue had left him _behind_. They'd had a chance to go _between_ together, but Nariath had instead landed, his guts spilling all over the ground, let Woadred dismount...

...and then had gone _between_.

_ Without him._

That passive-aggressive manipulating _blue!_ Woadred loved him with all his heart, but within the love and grief was a thread of rage, rage that Nariath would make one of his _decisions_, and leave Woadred behind like this. Rage like thread, eating away, burrowing into the soul.

And yet the dragon _had_. And Nariath had had a strange sort of basso blue-twilight wisdom that had always evaded logic and memory but had often _worked_. So how could he ask another rider pair to take him to Nariath when Nariath had gone to so much effort and pain to have him _stay?_

"—okay? Do you need a Healer?"

A voice, a young voice, pierced through his bitter, pain-filled brooding.

Woadred slowly gathered all the trails of thought to shut away, all the distressed beats of his heart, the tight wheezes of breath. The dark score the bleeding side of his soul wrote did not go quickly silent. Nonetheless, when he finally had control, and opened his eyes, a twig of a boy was anxiously still standing at his side, waiting. Woadred stared down at him, bleakly.

"You're, uh, you're—Master Domick's Journeyman?" the boy asked, when their eyes met. An Apprentice knot hung limply from his shoulder.

Woadred was not a Journeyman. His hand went up to his own shoulder, and touched the Apprentice badge the Headwoman Silvina had given him a few days ago.

The boy looked confused. "Someone must have given you the wrong—"

"I'm just an Apprentice," Woadred said. "Domick's Apprentice."

"...oh."

They stood there, in the Hall, staring at each other. Woadred had nothing more to say, the pain subsiding into numbness once again, but the boy apparently did and said, "_'Master'_ Domick. He, uh...he gets cranky if you don't use his rank. Actually, most Masters do unless you're really close to them, and that doesn't usually happen until you're way older." Then he frowned. "Way older, like you." He blinked, and clearly re-evaluated what he'd just said. "I guess my advice there was useless..."

"No," Woadred said.

There was a pause. Then, "...okay. Well, he gets cranky, and when he gets cranky he's scary and can be a real pain in the arse. I thought you should know. His fights with Piemur—who really liked to talk back—are legendary."

"Who's Piemur?" Woadred asked.

"Well, he _was_ Master Shonogar's Apprentice, and the best bloody treble in the Hall, then his voice broke, and he went to the drum tower—probably as punishment since he used to be so cocky as a soloist—then he sort of disappeared. Nobody's seen him in turns. We think a wher ate him. But anyway, everyone sort of learned what _not_ to do with Master Domick by watching him. And dropping a Master's title is one of them. But you might be exempt because you're so old. Maybe Master Domick won't mind it...?"

Woadred thought about his interactions with his new Master. He hadn't seen anything to indicate Master Domick cared overmuch about rank. His clothes were well-worn, and Woadred had spotted him the other day wearing something with fading greenish-blue Journeyman's markings all over it, which actually was good evidence that Domick didn't care overmuch about how people perceived him. And, of course, Woadred had voiced his own self-knowledge that rank didn't scare him, and Domick hadn't seemed to care much about _that_. "Maybe not," Woadred said. Then, because the boy reminded him of a rider of a freshly-Impressed Weyrling, he said, "Will you get in trouble if you're not where you're supposed to be?"

The Apprentice dropped his eyes, then looked up again. "Yes, but...I thought..._do_ you need a Healer? You looked really sick for a bit there...that's why I stopped..."

"I don't know of any Healers that can fix an ex-rider," Woadred said. "We're supposed to fix ourselves."

"Ex—" the boy's eyes went huge.

It was mildly surprising that that fact about him had not been known, but it would be known now, he supposed. "Let's go eat dinner. I will tell them you stopped to help me. Maybe you won't get in trouble." Woadred was, after all, just an Apprentice too.

A score of different expressions crossed the boy's face. "That's not why I..." and he faltered.

Woadred pushed himself away from the wall, and began to walk.

The lad followed. "Uh—what's your name? I'm Wirt."

"Woadred," Woadred said, still walking.

"Were you—never mind. Woadred, dinner's, uh, it's _this_ way."

Woadred paused. He wasn't really hungry. Grief still lingered, rolled up into a ball in his gut, and he wanted to retreat to the guest room he'd temporarily been given to let it fade or burn itself out. Eating could happen later.

But Wirt would get in trouble for being late if Woadred didn't support his excuse.

So Woadred turned and followed the younger Harper to the dining room.

#

Woadred had avoided taking meals with the rest of the Hall ever since he arrived. The first day when he and Domick had arrived from Ista Weyr, they'd arrived between meals, and Silvina had brought food for them both. The second day, Master Robinton himself had asked for a plate for Woadred, for the only time he had had open to evaluate Woadred had been during the midday meal. Woadred didn't feel any particular urges to eat more than once a day, so those had sufficed. But today no convenient way to eat outside of the dining room had presented itself. He'd intended to just not eat at all at the Hall today, since it had seemed to him once he'd asked Domick to leave they'd take him back to the Weyr and that would be that. That, obviously, had changed.

He did not like crowds.

He also did not like cowards, and wouldn't leave Wirt on his own to possibly be punished for tardiness. Which settled the matter in his own mind, even as he realized some few minutes later that Wirt had been speaking to him about something as they walked, and he hadn't heard or answered.

Since he hadn't heard or remembered more than the rising and falling of a voice, he couldn't answer now. So he remained silent, but still accompanied Wirt, and when they reached the dining room—the meal clearly in full swing and the room full of chattering people—it seemed that one or two Journeymen who were clearly stationed at the door to discipline latecomers looked sideways at them but didn't take Woadred's own Apprentice badge seriously enough to actually take either of them to task.

Wirt, assured of his safety from the wrath of any Journeyman and Master now, made a beeline to a table where several of his friends clearly were, but his seat was the only one open. Woadred halted, and curious eyes from several tables alighted on him, and when Woadred's gaze swept over the round table that had several Masters sitting at it, he saw Master Domick staring back. Master Domick made no move however, and made no sign to tell Woadred what to do, so Woadred found a table that was half-empty and occupied by men roughly his own age, and sat.

The Harpers around him affably passed him food from the dwindling bowls on the table, and it wasn't until he'd served himself and was mowing through his greens—hungrier than he'd thought—that one of them said, "Are you really an Apprentice?"

Woadred paused, and looked up. The tone of the man who'd addressed him had held less of a curious question in it, and more the tone of a man with some bad news. So he glanced around, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Finally, after gazing at the various tables, it became clear to him that the seating was not Weyr-like. In the Weyr, friends and kin sat together, wherever they wanted. Men and women would change tables at will if they spotted someone they wished to speak to over a meal.

In contrast, it seemed that the men and women of the Harper Hall actually sat by rank.

The table he was at was populated by Journeymen.

"Yes, I am an Apprentice," Woadred said.

"You should have sat with them, then, mate," and the Journeyman pointed his finger across the room, at a different table that similarly had room left over.

It was populated by little girls, including the one who'd pushed by him earlier in the hallway, shouting at him to _move move move_.

Woadred sat staring at them, until one of them caught him at it, nudged her companion, and suddenly six or seven young girls were giving Woadred the stink-eye.

He continued to stare back. He'd never imagined something as simple as a meal could be so regimented! What was the purpose? By all accounts, Masterharper Robinton was quite open-minded and laid back, yet why would meals at his Hall be regulated in such a manner? He turned to the Journeyman and said, "That's stupid."

Several Harpers laughed.

"He just doesn't want to sit with the little girls," one of them said, with a half grin.

"Not many do," someone else said with a shrug.

Woadred had no objection to sitting with girls. It was the whole seating arrangement by rank that was stupid. But it was clearly a ritual, and given Master Domick had put some level of trust in Woadred, Woadred decided seating arrangements were not worth fighting over. He stiffly rose and took himself and his meal over to the little girls' table.

The stink-eyes turned into stares, but Woadred chose a seat at the very opposite end of the half-empty table, and calmly began to eat again.

The female Apprentices huddled together and talked in whispers. Woadred ignored them and glanced back over at the Master's table. Domick was still watching him, but now he had an ambiguous half-smirk on his face for a second before turning his attention to his own meal.

Then one of the girls, obviously appointed as a spokesperson, said, "You shouldn't _be_ here."

A smile briefly appeared on Woadred's face. How true her words were, yet here he was. He glanced over at Domick again, but Domick was speaking to Menolly now.

"We mean it," the apprentice said, after waiting futilely for him to reply.

But what was there to say? She was right. He'd even tried to leave today, and Master Domick had told him in not so many words that he was a fool for trying it. Who was he to go against the word of a Master?

The girls whispered again, and then the same spokeswoman said, "A broken-back apprentice shouldn't be sitting with _us_. Especially not when he looks at us weird like _you_ did."

It dawned on Woadred only then that the girls felt _intimidated_ by him. That they had taken his earlier look in their direction as something decidedly other than what it had been. He frowned, and remembered that Menolly, Master Menolly up there, was the first full-fledged female Harper. And she had a true, incomparable talent. He'd heard her play, and he'd studied her songs—in fact, her songs had led him to Master Domick's, and he felt he owed her a certain debt in a way for compelling his interest in composition.

However, these girls were much younger, and a casual glance around him showed just how outnumbered they were. Menolly had rank, Master Robinton's personal support, ten firelizards, and sheer talent on her side. These girls only had each other and a path through the Harper Hall that was likely as murky as his own.

It would take a stupider man than Woadred was not to be able to string those notes together and figure out why they felt threatened by him. He looked over his shoulder and explained, "I wasn't broken back. I was an Apprentice Harper in Nerat over ten turns ago, and then a bluerider at Ista Weyr. And Nariath and I used to spend our free time poking certain types of Holdless full of holes. I won't hurt you." He wasn't a broken-back troublemaker coming over to sit with the young women half his age out of prurient interests. And the more he thought of their initial reactions and hostility to him, the angrier he became. Who had treated them in such a way that they'd built up these defenses? This fearful aggression? If he had his sword still, he'd poke _those_ people full of holes, and know full well his Nariath would have supported him at it!

"...you were a _dragonrider?"_ the _move-move-move_ girl said in astonishment, her hostility melting away.

"_Bluerider,_" one of them whispered, nudging another knowingly.

But he didn't, couldn't, respond. It was as if meeting Wirt in the hallway, then being spoken to at the Journeyman table, and now attempting to soothe the girls' fears had finally run him dry, and since they now knew enough about him—in his mind—to put his behavior in a less creepy context...or maybe, if not _less_ creepy, more _understandably_ creepy...he didn't answer any more. It was too much of an effort. Instead he finished off his dinner, and thought about endings.

"Is he going to say anything?" one of them whispered.

He couldn't bring up the will to, so he didn't.

His mind, perhaps in another attempt to process the mass of people segregated by rank, eventually returned to the ideas of three-dimensional activity in the Weyrs, verses two-dimensional activity in a Crafthall. Could you represent this in music? Then he wondered what a Harper would do if he—or she—had the ability to transverse the fourth dimension like a dragonrider, and his mind took off on a song designed to be sung with one's self. And shortly he had another three beginnings to songs, but no more endings than he'd started with.

Some time later, he was started from his reverie by a group of gangly older Apprentices, who seemed to have some sort of duty of cleaning the dining room after use. They scattered around and picked things up and swept and straightened benches and chairs. One came over to Woadred. "Can I take this?" A grubby finger was pointed at his bowl as if it'd committed a crime.

Woadred blinked, realized he was the only one left sitting in the room, and rose. "Yes," he said, and let the young man have his empty dish. Then he left, and headed back to his quarters to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Wirt," Master Domick said at the end of next morning's rehearsal. "Stay a few minutes."

The boy turned as white as if he'd just been sentenced to death by thread. This was a puzzling to Domick, as Wirt was generally well-behaved and reasonably quick-witted, which meant he'd never provoked Domick's ire, but then again Wirt had always been a bit skittish and nervy so perhaps it was just that.

Wirt's friends gave him significant looks as they filed out, and Domick rolled his eyes to himself.

"Master Domick?" Wirt asked, once they were the only ones left in the rehearsal room.

"Come here. Sit down," Domick said, and pulled the heavy score off the conductor's stand he'd been using and filed it away. Wirt crept close and did as he was told. "I saw you come in late to dinner last night, with Woadred."

"Yes sir," Wirt said. "Am I in trouble for being late?"

"Well, that depends," Domick said, with a bit of a vulpine smile. "Oh, no need to shake in your boots, child. Contrary to the scare-stories your friends may tell, I don't eat Apprentices for lunch if they've done nothing wrong. Master Robinton is _very_ against that sort of thing. But if you _do_ do something wrong, well..." Domick shrugged. "...he's a tad more lenient."

That coaxed a hesitant smile out of Wirt.

Smiling slightly himself, Domick began pulling out the scores for the next rehearsal scheduled. "Why was Woadred with you?" he asked as he did this.

"Oh. Well, I ran into him in the hallway yesterday, and he was kind of...you know...looking green. Green enough that if thread was around, it might have devoured him. So I stopped and asked if he needed a Healer."

Domick's eyebrows shot up. "Did you, now?"

"Yes sir."

"And what did Woadred say?"

"Said a Healer can't fix him, it's up to him to fix himself."

Interesting. Very, very interesting. "Do you think he wants to?" Domick asked curiously, not really expecting a good answer from someone so young.

"Uh?" Wirt said. "I don't know, sir."

He grunted. "You _do_ know he's an ex-dragonrider?" Domick asked.

"Yes sir."

"And how do you know that?" Domick knew Robinton had only told this to the Masters.

"Woadred told me."

Also interesting. "And have you told others?"

Wirt was silent. Domick glanced over at the boy, and Wirt was red and looked guilty.

Domick sighed. "Just keep in mind when discussing it—or gossiping about it—that the loss of a dragon is terrible for all of Pern in general, but ever more so for the dragonrider when the rider is left alone to carry on. Have some empathy, and urge your friends not to badger him endlessly about dragons or the Weyr or whatever might come to mind."

Wirt looked mortified. "But—"

"He's obviously willing to tell people he's an ex-rider, but that doesn't mean you're going to get any stories about him, unless he chooses to tell them. He's a Harper now. And, in fact, was a Harper prior to Impressing too."

"Yes sir," Wirt said.

"Do you like him?" Domick said, turning the topic towards the question he actually wanted to ask the boy.

"I don't know, really, I just met him."

"Fair enough. I've heard from Master Jerint you've a decent hand at instrument-making, for one so young."

Astonishment crossed Wirt's face at this compliment, then pride. "I don't know."

"Well, you do now," Domick said. "Would you be willing to tutor Woadred in it?"

_"Me?"_

"You."

"I don't...I'm...aren't I too _young_?"

"Woadred is very 'young' at instrument-making," Domick said. "I'm told you often help your friends, who are also 'young' at instrument-making, to good results."

"I don't _make_ their instruments!"

"But you explain things to them again, and then they improve."

"Not _always._"

Domick narrowed his eyes. There was being humble, and then there was being self-effacing to a fault. Maybe Woadred's fearlessness would rub off on Wirt. "Often enough," he said, his tone carrying a warning. "I spoke to Master Jerint, and he'd permit you and Woadred to use a table in his workshop independently every other morning. _You_ to work on some moderately advanced pieces, and _Woadred_ to learn basic instrument making theory and practice from you, so that he eventually can join one of the regular classes. Unless you are uncomfortable with teaching a man older than you, who is an ex-rider. In which case you'll stay in with the regular classes."

Dismay crossed Wirt's face at that. He obviously didn't want to stay in with the regular classes. "I'll teach 'im," he declared.

Domick nodded. "Then it's settled." And he set the new score on his podium, and began bringing out piles of individual scores for the instrumentalists that would be rehearsing next. "Go join your friends, and remember what I said about pestering Woadred. That is, _don't do it._"

"Yes sir! Er, I mean, no sir, I won't," Wirt said, and a smile spread across his face. And he bounced to his feet and ran off.

#

"Oh no, no, no, you're not supposed to stain it yet—" the high voice of Wirt protested to Woadred in dismay, like the distant whine of an insect pestering him and Nariath.

A Journeyman Harper, disturbed from concentrating on his design sketches, glanced around at them once, then did a double-take. "That's not stain you fool, that's blood!" he cried, and slammed his slate down.

Woadred watched from a distant place as the Journeyman Harper sprang into action. The young apprentice Wirt was unceremoniously pushed aside by the older Harper, and Woadred had his hand seized and inspected.

It surprised Woadred as much as it did anyone else that there was a line cut across three fingers and down the outer edge of his palm. It was deep enough to gape a little bit at the edges, and red blood was spread around in a thin coat that Woadred had mistaken by feel to be sweat...but they could all see where the pale, unvarnished wood of the gitar they had been working on was now darkened with several red-brown smears. "Where did that come from?" he asked Nariath by reflex.

Nariath, of course, did not answer, and the sudden reaffirmation of that hole in his being made him have to suppress an exclamation of grief. But, a faint brassy sound of a trumpet floated in one of the windows...indeed, sounding in that musical short-hand that was supposed to signify dragons, before it fell into the harmony line from one of the new dragon-honoring ballads. One of Menolly's songs.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. You could _probably_ get something resembling a dragon's voice from a trumpet—but it wouldn't sound like _that_. It was too high, for one thing, for anything but a queen. Nothing like his Nariath's comforting basso rumbles.

"Get moving you—don't just stand and stare at it. Over to the sink. That's your left hand, man, so move!" the Journeyman commanded.

People. He was among ordinary people, who wouldn't understand, who _couldn't_ understand, no matter how much they fancied themselves to be empathic. So he tried to ignore the hole in his heart, tried to stop those thoughts cold. How foolish he was, to address Nariath in his distress. How foolish he was, to search for someone who wasn't there, and never would be again.

Woadred closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again, and looked at his wound.

Master Menolly had a scar on her hand. Not that his little wound matched hers. He watched as more blood welled out, and then felt the other man take him by the shoulders like a little boy and push. Wirt, distressed, followed timidly behind.

"Shards and stars," the Journeyman said. "Who is this fellow, Wirt? He's entirely zoned out on us, and I don't recognize him..."

"He's Master Domick's apprentice. I've been tutoring him in instrument making, and—"

Woadred's hand was suddenly shoved under a warm tap, and began to sting fiercely as the Harper washed it, pulled it out, dripped some vile brown concoction on it from a nearby bottle's dropper, then washed it again.

"Apprentice! Apprentice? This man's as old as I am...older, even," and the man's unfamiliar face suddenly moved in close to peer at him, before drawing away as the man stretched up to a cupboard to retrieve some Healer's materials. "What under the red star did you do to get yourself broken back to—is he really Master Domick's apprentice? Broken back and...that doesn't make sense...he's really Domick's?"

"He wasn't broken back, he was a dragonrider. Well, a Harper first, then a dragonrider, and now a Harper again...is it okay if I tell him this, Woadred?" and the boy peered over at him, anxious.

"Too late now, isn't it?" Ordont said, and then popped the lid off of a jar of numbweed salve and used a thick brush to cover the cut on Woadred's hand.

"Is he going to be okay?" Wirt asked.

Ordont bound Woadred's hand. "Yes. He bleeds like a stuck pig, that's all. Don't you?" he asked Woadred.

Woadred focused his eyes, and stared back at the Harper staring at him. Strains of trumpets sounded through the windows again, announcing a Queen.

Ordont was not a queenrider. But...his sister was.

"Ollani..." Woadred said, remembering the girl's name. They'd found her in the forest...he and Nariath...

The Journeyman rocked back on his heels. "How do...You were from Fort? You know my sister?"

A strange laugh worked its way out of Woadred, sudden and short. "We got in trouble for being in Fort territory—" he said, remembering how the bronze riders had come in and told him off for interfering, and then how the Weyrleaders had come in, D'ram and N'ton both, because Holdless had died...

Ordont's eyes widened. "You're—_you're_ D'red!"

The half-laugh excitement in the Journeyman's voice hit Woadred in the gut, for some reason. He was D'red? No, he was _not_, for he could not be D'red without _Nariath_. A grimace contorted his face.

Then Ordont crushed Woadred to him. "You saved her life! They...they _took_ her and—D'red, you—I never got to thank—"

He twitched violently in her arms. No. No. He was _not_ D'red!

"—never got to _thank _you. You saved her life and dignity—"

He? _He?_ He had not. It was _Nariath_ that had heard the girl! Where was _Nariath's_ thanks? _He_ had done nothing but finished what his brave dragon had begun.

"—and now she's at Fort Weyr—"

"You're thanking the _wrong person_," Woadred snarled at Ordont in a tight, labored voice, and freed himself stiffly. Then he turned and left the workshop, his hip hitting the gitar he'd been working on and sending it crashing to the ground before a panicked Wirt could catch it.

Journeyman Ordont watched him go, astonished.

#

That's always how it had been. People thanking _D'red_ for things his dragon had done, like the dragon didn't exist. Only before, D'red could relay it on to his dragon, and feel Nariath's pleasure and satisfaction.

Now he could not.

Why had Nariath left him behind? _Purposefully_ left him behind? He didn't know of a single other...death...where the dying dragon explicitly _set his rider down_...then went _between_. Always, there was some battle to see if the dragon would heal, which accidentally left the rider on the ground, or the pair went _between_ together.

Woadred was _nothing_ without Nariath. Ordont's thanks was meaningless, like thanking the harness Nariath had worn instead of thanking Nariath directly. What _use_ was there in _thanking_ an over-aged Apprentice who couldn't even make an instrument? What an insult, to _not_ thank the dragon!

And then he felt guilt, because he _knew_ he was thinking that Harpers were useless again.

Domick's dour expression, hiding a hint of hurt in his dark eyes flashed through Woadred's memory.

It wasn't...

...it wasn't...

He didn't _mean_...

Woadred fled to his room. Opened the door. Closed it. Wished Nariath was there, then laughed manically in the dark at the image of his fat blue trying to fit into this tiny room. His life no longer held room for a dragon. His _room_ no longer was a weyr for a dragon.

He was _not_ a dragonrider. And yet his every thought was about dragons.

He should go back to the Weyr.

He would not _survive_ going back to the Weyr.

Master Domick did not want him going back to the Weyr.

_Why_ had he come here? To the Harper Hall? Why had he fallen for Master Domick's words, one moment logical, the next sardonic, and the next compassionate. Why had he fallen to the seduction of music? He only played music because it let him loose himself. Let him express himself to the half of his soul that was no longer there. But it didn't _do_ anything.

It didn't make him worthy of Ordont's praise.

He felt rage at Ordont, at the words of thanks oozing from the Journeyman's mouth.

He felt guilt for his anger at a grateful man trying to show his thanks.

And then, the fit of chaotic emotions burned out and he was left sitting numbly in a chair, staring at the wall. His cut hand stung and itched.

Eventually, there was a tap on the door.

Woadred did not answer it.

But Master Domick let himself in, scowled at the darkened room, and slid a glow pot open. Its wan green light fell upon the chair across from Woadred. Which Domick sat down in, and waited for Woadred to speak..

When he did haltingly and brokenly, Domick listened.

And, eventually, dissuaded Woadred from any rash actions and brought the decision back to where it had been: that Woadred would stay in the Hall.

#

Master Domick sat down with him often in that first month. Blocked every explanation, every path _out out out_ with something that made more sense than Woadred's own thoughts and feelings.

#

Then he assigned Woadred a project to compose something emotional—with multiple variations on a theme.

And when Woadred turned in the project, Master Domick even looked pleased.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"What do you think?" Master Domick asked, waving a hand at Woadred's tunes, a neutral expression on his face.

"He does seem to have difficulty with lyrics," Menolly allowed as neutrally as Domick, taking the slates the other Master gave her. "But the melody and harmony are sound."

Domick reached over and picked up one of the slates, that had the most recent date scribbled at the bottom in chalk. "And look at this," he offered.

"The finale," Menolly said. Then she paused, realizing the significance. "Wait—is this his _first_ finale?"

Master Domick didn't smile. Menolly knew he wouldn't grant exuberant praise for something so simple as completing a song. As he reminded her sometimes, he was _not_ a parent, to crow at the least little achievement of any of his charges.

But even so, the edges of his eyes crinkled slightly.

She gave up neutrality and grinned at the tiny display of pride. "Do you want me to work with him?" she asked, and shuffled back to the first slate again, reading the notes silently.

"If your schedule permits," Master Domick said. "I've had him studying your work. He seems quite _enamored_ of it."

Menolly glanced up at his amused tone. "You're not trying to _match _ me?" she asked with slight alarm.

Surprise flooded his swarthy face. "Goodness, no. _Me_, a match-maker? In what cold, inky _between_ did you come up with _that_ horrible idea?"

"I suppose I do go _between_ too much for my own good, following Robinton around," Menolly said with a laugh. "Maybe it scrambled my head."

He snorted. "Not as much _betweening _of late, though. He's been keeping you home this year."

She shrugged. "Whatever Pern needs," she said, hoping she was nonchalant.

"Whatever indeed," Master Domick said with a sigh she was unable to interpret. "Woadred has improved much in his interactions with Wirt. I expect you and Woadred will do well too. However, he still has...well, you've seen him around the Hall. He's not...entirely _integrated_ yet. But he's better."

"I'll be gentle," Menolly said, trying to reassure Master Domick.

"Gentle? No. Maybe you could stir him up instead. I've been keeping the 'gentle' covered believe it or not. He respects you and your music; he could benefit from a prod from you. As I seem to be losing my own touch." He glanced sideways at her.

She laughed. "That would be _very_ unusual. But I'll challenge him, if that's what you mean."

"It'll have to do," Domick said. "Thank you."

#

"Woadred," a kind, warm female voice said from the doorway of Domick's office.

Woadred hesitated in the scale he'd been playing on his gitar, and turned to her. He hadn't expected anyone but Domick to find him practicing here. Most people summoned to this particular office left as quickly as humanly possible afterwards. But apparently Master Menolly did not find Domick's stamping grounds a dire place to be, and here she was.

A moment later, she seemed to realize his silent attention was all she was going to get from him and spoke. "Domick's told me that he has you working on variations of a theme. I think it's pretty good," she added, pulling out a few hides and slates and flipping through them rapidly.

A strange feeling stirred in Woadred's stomach at the praise, and he looked down at his hands. Master Menolly thought _his_ stuff was 'pretty good'? He glanced up at her again. Menolly had a reputation for being relatively straight forward insofar as harpers...and _Harpers_...went. And while she was kind and encouraging, she didn't give praise where it wasn't warranted.

He'd been studying her songs when he'd had a chance...plenty of them were to be found in Domick's bins. He didn't see how _his_ music was anything at all like hers...but then again, that's not what she had said and she didn't necessarily have to _only_ like music similar to that which she herself composed.

_She_ liked his music. Menolly. Of the firelizards! She liked _his_ music.

He turned slightly red.

Again realizing he was not going to say anything, Menolly continued. "Master Domick's asked me to assist you with putting lyrics to these variations—"

The blood drained out of his face, and he felt sharp alarm, sliding into panic. But he didn't know how to voice it; it stuck thick in his craw, like unbaked dough.

"—so I was hoping we could take a little time this afternoon to sit down together, and—"

"But why does it need lyrics?" he managed.

She paused. "How is a Harper to teach but with words? The music is only one part of the song."

"I could write _another_ song," he said after a pause. His fingers slid up and down the strings of his gitar thoughtfully, drawing a faint noise.

Menolly's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid I wasn't asking _which_ song we'd work on," she said after a moment. "Meet me in one of the smaller composition rooms in the last work hour today."

And with that, she turned heel and left, and a few firelizards that had crept in before without his notice followed her out with flips of their wings.

Woadred pulled his gitar in close to his belly and wondered at the stark terror the idea of writing lyrics wrought in him.

#

"So, I was thinking—"

The voice was loud and near enough that Woadred glanced over to see who was being spoken to, and then realized with a shock as his eyes met Ordont's, that it was _him_. He stopped and stared.

"We got off on the wrong foot. You were bleeding, I was fluttering around making little happy noises like a wee little girl, except without any female intuition or empathy whatsoever, and I don't blame you at all for being upset."

Woadred continued to stare. "Little happy noises?" he asked eventually.

"Your Nariath saved my sister's life. And now she is a queen rider. I can't thank Nariath as I understand it—and you have my condolences—but I'm thanking you, as your blue's proxy. Sometimes enthusiastic thanks includes little happy noises, but I promise not today. But may I shake your hand? In a manly fashion?"

Woadred didn't see why not, and offered it.

"The world is short on good people like you," Ordont said, grasping it in both hands and shaking it firmly. Then he paused and said, "This is the hand you were gushing blood from, wasn't it..."

"It's healed," Woadred said.

"Oh. Great." And Ordont released him. "So where are you off to?"

Woadred's mouth felt gummy, but eventually he said, "Lessons."

"With who?"

"Master Menolly."

Journeyman Ordont's eyes lit up. "Really? I didn't know she was teaching. Who else is in your class?"

Woadred considered this, but he couldn't remember it being said that it was a group class. So he presumed it wasn't. "Just me."

The other Harper laughed. "Just you? You're a lucky man, Woadred."

Normally Woadred would have agreed—her music was fantastic—but not now. "She wants me to put lyrics to my songs..." The idea still put him off-balance.

"Here's a free tip..._don't_ write about her."

Woadred cocked his head.

"It's incredibly tempting, I know...and the last time someone tried to serenade her with a custom-writ song, that man got pulled into Master Robinton's office so quick you would have thought he went _between_."

As Woadred understood it, Master Robinton was not quick to temper. So...wasn't that out of character for their Craftmaster? "Was it bawdy?" he asked slowly. A bawdy song might be enough to try even Masterharper Robinton's patience.

"I presume not, because the man is still a harper."

"I wasn't planning on writing a serenade," Woadred said. The only person he would have serenaded was Nariath...and he felt regret that he would never be able to do so.

"Then you should be safe." Ordont glanced down the hallway, and they both saw that the periodic rush and drain of people in the hallway was almost over. "Good luck in your lessons. I don't think I've heard anything of yours yet, so I hope I can soon, once your Master allows it."

"Maybe," Woadred said.

Ordont shrugged at the reluctance in Woadred's voice. "See you later," he said amiably, and left.

Woadred forced his feet to move him onwards through the hall.

#

"Outta the way, brats!" came the shout in the hallway outside Domick's office where Woadred was practicing.

"We're not in your way, you're just fat!" a girl proclaimed.

"Let 'em be, Doruff. If we let them grow up, when they marry us and nag at least it'll be in tune! I swear, did you hear Dunca's screeching this morning? It would drive a watch-wher mad!"

"We'll _never_ marry you!" a different girl said.

"Yeah, yeah. Who do you _think_ you'll marry then!"

"A Smith with big arms and a hammer that's larger than _your_ little tin whistles!"

That caused half the hallway to laugh.

"That was actually kind of clever for a little girl," someone chortled.

"Man, Doruff—how do they know?" someone else said, to the sound of a slap on the arm. "You should really keep your pants on—the Harper will _kill_ you if he finds out _they_ know how small you are! I mean, it is obvious, but still—"

There was a scuffle at that.

"I'll marry a dragonrider," one of the other girls said, ignoring the senior apprentices. "He'll fly me away from _you_ morons."

"Maybe you haven't heard the drumbeats, but half of the Weyr wouldn't be interested in you, and it's not because _they're_ girls..."

Woadred had heard such things before, and, in the past the sight of Nariath had quickly cowed them. But he had never expected to hear them in the Harper Hall—nor, to be used as an excuse for why a female Harper would have to be content with idiots like these. That made him angry. It was a feeling he was not very used to in the numbness since Nariath's passing...but he knew how he and Nariath would have handled it _before_.

Quietly he put his gitar down, closed the glass top of the desk he had been working at, and rose and padded out of Domick's office.

Out in the Hallway there was a clump of Harpers. The boys ranged in age from small lads who sang treble still, to nearly-men whose bodies had grown bigger faster than their brains had, and there were five of them. And three of the girls he'd seen before were huddled together, but glaring defiantly.

"What was that about the Weyr?" Woadred asked quietly.

"Did anyone ask for _you_?" one of the lads asked, puffing himself up in bravado and stepping closer to Woadred. The lad was taller, but skinnier. "Were you just...sitting in Master Domick's office, or something? Who _does_ that? It's _Domick_."

"Master Domick," Woadred corrected.

"He's from the Weyr you know. He's just upset we know he's probably playing first flute in Domick's duet, if you know what I mean."

Woadred thought about what to say. The lads stared back at him, waiting. But Woadred wasn't sure what to say about any of it. It was untrue. They knew it, and he knew it. Was there any point to saying it? And while the idea that Master Domick would sleep with his apprentices was angering, the kindred idea that either Woadred or Domick preferred men wasn't even offensive. Although it was meant to be, clearly.

The lads began to snigger as Woadred said nothing. "Hey, I think we have Camo's thicker brother here—" the oldest one said.

Woadred decided to let his fist hit the lad's face. The tall skinny harper dropped like a rock, dazed.

"I'd rather have Camo as a brother than any of you," Woadred said calmly as the other four jumped back and the girls gasped. "And the next time I hear you harassing these young apprentices, I'll do to you what I did to the men who harassed Journeyman Ordont's sister."

"His queenrider sister?" one of the girls said. "Are you the dragonrider that fought all those Holdless?"

Woadred touched his belt where a sword no longer hung, found it not there. He had not missed it before, but now he missed it, because it had been a symbol of days where he actually _did_ something to make a difference, although he had no intention of actually killing these young men. He rather thought Master Robinton might frown on it. So would Nariath. So he said nothing, but it was interesting watching their faces change as they filled in the story themselves.

Everyone stared at him for a while, expecting him to do or say more, then when he didn't, the lads helped their fallen brother up, and hightailed away. Not, Woadred noted, towards the Healer side of the Hall.

Then he turned to the girls. "Does Master Menolly know?" he asked eventually.

They looked at each other, and away. "We can't go to her every time someone says something dumb. Besides, she punched Benis when he did the same stupid jealousy stuff to her! Piemur told us, right when we came to the Hall. She took care of it herself. Like _we_ will."

"Keep in mind," Woadred said. "That Menolly is a tall, well-built woman who was near full-grown when she entered the Hall, and had firelizards and the rank of being Master Robinton's apprentice. Don't feel afraid of asking for help if you need it. As you saw, I'm good at being stupid muscle. And since I apparently enjoy the company of men, I won't carry on about marrying you either. Besides, you deserve better."

"You can talk," one of the girls said.

Woadred felt a chuckle bubble up. "When my head is clear."

They looked at each other again, and gave him tentative smiles. Then one said "Thank you!" and they turned and scurried off.

_You're welcome,_ he thought, a few heartbeats later. And he returned to work on his song.

The song he had been stuck on had been about him and Nariath, and he hadn't wanted to write those words. But, the more it seemed, he didn't have to write about it directly. He didn't have to expose himself in that manner.

So, instead, he was going to write some lyrics about worthy women, and unworthy men.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Woadred."

The word was neutral, exquisitely controlled, and rolled over Woadred as he worked at the sandtable. He considered adding it to his piece, but couldn't figure out where it would fit, and it wasn't as if _his_ name belonged in a story about worthy men.

"Woadred," the voice said again.

It was a voice he knew. Domick's. He felt a pang of mingled pleasure and grief. Grief because he'd never have Nariath calling him again. Pleasure because...well, he wasn't sure why. He paused in pressing notes into the damp sand, and frowned.

"By the Shells of Faranth, you WILL put that _down_ and _look_ at your Master when he calls you!"

It wasn't really the words that got through to him. It was the tone—neutral no more, sparking with the anger that to this date had never been directed towards him.

For an instant, he realized he had displeased Domick, and felt a crushing sense of pain. What's more, he didn't know _why_! Why should he care about what _anyone_ but Nariath thought? And then he felt rage, rage that any mere _man _could make him feel anything at all, as if all of his happiness and sadness wasn't already dedicated to his absent dragon. How dare anyone siphon away his emotions to some purpose other than mourning? How dare they assume he had more to give within himself, or that anyone but Nariath deserved a share of his emotions?

And then somehow Master Domick was no longer halfway across the room, but _right here_ and Woadred jerked back from his presence. His knuckles from the fist he'd thrown earlier itched.

And then Domick's warm hand enveloped the fist he'd pulled back.

The _fist_. That _he had pulled back._

Woadred was not afraid to strike a man who deserved it. Or even a woman, if she crossed a certain line and became a danger or harm.

Woadred was also not afraid to defy a Master. What could a Master do to him that wouldn't pass with time? He already marked the passing of time each day that pass, taking him further and further away from the _whens_ of Nariath.

But never had he been a violent man for the sake of violence, for all that he and Nariath had done what needed to be done out in the wilds.

And never had he raised a hand to a friend until now.

And yet, here he was, sitting with his fist raised, with Master Domick's hand covering it.

And he wasn't sure _why_. Had he been startled? Yes, but only due to himself. That was no reason to raise a fist. No, he had raised it entirely due to his private thought and private feelings and sadness and rage.

He didn't even know why Master Domick had lost his temper with him. And he was sorry, so sorry, but he didn't know what to say, or what to do with himself now that he saw himself reacting to things violently.

Had the mere disciplining of a lad who was harassing the female Apprentices done something to him? Or was it something else? He looked at his fist, held in Domick's warm hand, then looked at Domick, unable to speak.

#

Domick had never shouted at Woadred before. But then again, for all the ex-rider was the walking wounded, there had not yet been any issues with him until now, and his half-smile when Domick had said his name had made it clear he had heard his name being called. So Domick had felt the young man was taking liberties with the freedom Domick had given them.

But when he raised his voice out of ire at his student's choice to continue sitting there without response...the young man's face did not smirk but was instead startled and transparent, and a confused medley of emotions flowed across it—but even watching those sudden deep emotions Domick hadn't realized _how_ deep they were until he put his hand on Woadred's shoulder and the ex-rider pulled his fist back at Domick's touch.

Master Domick caught the fist with his other hand before it could move.

And Woadred paused.

Catching a fist was a bad thing to do, generally; Domick was no fighter, and such a move just put one inside the range of the one _throwing_ the fists. More than a few apprentices and journeymen disliked him enough that in the heat of the moment, they might take a swing at him, if he had put himself in their way. And yet he'd just moved closer here to Woadred, instead of moving elsewhere, and reached out.

More emotions, all of them mixed, flashed over Woadred's face, and he looked at his hand caught in Domick's, and then up at Domick, light gray eyes open and vulnerable.

Then Woadred uncurled his fist and took his hand, simultaneously sliding out of his seat to kneel on the ground before him. He briefly pressed Domick's hand to his cheek and said, "I'm sorry," his posture an extreme of submission that Domick had never witnessed before, except in mock on stage.

Although, clearly, the miserable hunch of Woadred's shoulders was not mock at all, but real, to the younger man at least.

Domick opened his mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to say, and finally settled on, "I dearly hope this...bow, I suppose...is in response to you raising your fist, and not due to the reason I came to get you originally."

Silence. One of Woadred's characteristic pauses, long and awkward. Then, "Yes."

Domick sighed. "Get up, Woadred. He's not dead. And never bow like that to me again. It's incredibly awkward. Believe it or not, and despite popular rumor to the contrary, I don't desire full grown men _bowing_ to me, whatever your technical rank may be."

Woadred let go of his hand, but did not get up. He did change his posture though, leaning back and sitting on his behind with his feet before him, like an attentive student though his face was still vulnerable and conflicted and sad.

Finding a nearby stool to sit on, and to provide some distance, Domick said, "This violence concerns me. I was told at the Weyr that you were not violent. And I admit, this did play into my decision to take you as my apprentice."

Woadred stared at him. Then, as if the response had risen to the top like something floating in syrup, he said, "I'm sorry. Sometimes..." and he paused.

Domick waited.

And waited.

Until Woadred went on. "—_Nariath_ was my filter, and _he_—" The young man's throat visibly contorted, and the broken words trailed off.

Domick waited again.

"I don't know why I raised my hand to you." Woadred admitted.

"I hear you walked up to a senior apprentice and punched him for no good reason. Do you know why you did that?"

Woadred frowned. Then, after a while, said, "They were harassing the girls. Implying they were only there to grow up and marry other Harpers, and learn to nag in tune."

_This_ made Domick frown too, for he _hadn't _heard _that_ part. What he _had_ heard was that his apprentice had hit another one, and he'd also overheard them calling Woadred Camo's little but equally stupid brother. Or lover, in the more spiteful versions.

But it also made him relieved. There'd been a reason, a logical one that _he_ understood, which he could relay to the Harper. Woadred had not entirely gone off half-cocked, unprovoked. Yet...yet. Violence. "Next time, can you just talk them down?"

One of Woadred's slow, thick pauses. Then, "Maybe."

"Woadred; I _can't_ encourage violence. Even if they deserve it. You unnerve people with your hesitations, in the way we can see your suffering in your face and body, and when you seem stuck in your thoughts. If you are violent on _top_ of this—"

"It was useful," Woadred said. "What I did, for them. It mattered."

There it was again, the man's preoccupation with doing something "useful". Master Domick for once didn't feel an awkward, buried stab of pain this time. No, this time he felt anger, burning away his patience like fire to wick. Anger that he had _tried_, in many ways, to show Woadred ways in which he could become "useful". Anger that his own actions had, clearly, counted for nothing in Woadred's eyes. He _liked_ Woadred, and it infuriated him that even a man he liked, whom he had tried to help, held so little respect for what he did.

He had...hoped, in a way...that a different, more compassionate pattern was a valid way of teaching, in addition to his usual tricks. That he wasn't the Master that nagged, and yelled, and demanded in a tone that would occasionally bring tears to apprentices' eyes like his rehearsals would have everyone believe. If Master Morshal was known as the petty Master, he didn't want to forever be known, by everyone, as the angry one. He was _more_ than that, and his place in the Hall only static because he chose to do what he was _best_ at, over what he would be merely "good" at. _That_ mattered to him. It _mattered_. He had chosen to be the _best_, and that came with its own set of perils. What was it that Robinton said—for every great talent, fate seemed to compensate with an equally great loss?

Domick pressed his lips closed in a thin line, realizing that his anger came from within. He was angry with himself. He was disappointed in _himself_. For absurd reasons, no less. What did it matter that he couldn't get through to Woadred? Why did _that_ insult burn, when he'd shrugged off far more severe ones from other Harpers? Had taught hundreds of boys who didn't listen? The boy didn't even _mean_ it as an insult! And yet, he'd been chided for this line of reasoning before, and still persisted in an opinion of things where _only_ making music wasn't a thing that "truly" mattered.

Was this the part where Domick realized he'd been _too_ lenient? Perhaps. Perhaps. The ex-rider had had a great loss; perhaps he was frustrated because it wasn't compensated in the inverse of Robinton's little pithy saying. Woadred was not yet on the path to greatness; in fact, he continued to wallow in that loss, and sometimes such things were due to a lack of discipline. Domick drew in a breath, and spoke, his tone more acidic than any he'd yet used on Woadred. "For a man who savors his pauses like most would a thick stew, you have surprisingly little patience. Have I not counseled you on exploring paths that would let you 'matter' in the way you wish to matter? And yet, here we are, with you fighting in the corridors instead of presenting to me a suggestion of a _valid_ skill you wish to learn that could be channeled into your overweening desire to _matter_!"

"It was not...intended..."

"Are you man or child?" Domick asked. "A man plans his path. A child _reacts_. You _reacted_."

"A dragon 'reacts'," Woadred said, his voice, if possible, becoming even quieter than usual in his anger.

Domick leaned forward, towards the sitting figure on the ground. "And imagine what Pern would be like if dragons did not Impress to men. Would they flame over the fields that held the bovines they ate, forgetting the crops that would feed those same bovines tomorrow? Would they waste energy to protect a barren stretch of sands that might make a good hatching ground in the future, only to let a Trading caravan that carries only baubles humans enjoy be scored to the ground? I've seen how firelizards fight thread, screeching in a ball of chaos, protecting their hides, but none other. I have to wonder how dragons would fight, bereft the guidance of their human partners. You are a man, and heir to a man's abilities to remember. _Not_ a dragon."

"Spoken of one who has never been of the Weyr!" Woadred said, suddenly rising. His characteristic stiffness was absent, and the motion was fluid. "Had you been here, and not I, would you have let them harass those children? They did not expect _me_, you know. They thought no-one was here, or if anyone was, you. But if they expected _you_, what would they have expected? Why did they still feel safe, to go on spreading ideas of poison?" Woadred paused. "Or is it because you—"

"Don't matter?" Domick said in a dangerous tone.

A long pause, pregnant enough to give birth to several litters of kittens.

Domick looked away first, to stem his quick tongue from making it worse.

Then Woadred said, "I didn't say that."

"You've the tongue of a Harper," Domick said. "Although that technical loophole wasn't difficult to find, given the length you allowed yourself to think about it."

Woadred said nothing.

And this was how a different Harper found them, Woadred standing, silent but defiant, and Domick, sitting on a stool and looking up at him, sardonic.

"Harper Kinsale," Domick drawled, upon seeing the wiry old harper. "Where have you been hiding? I thought for sure others had taken up your duties by now, and that you'd retired to some tropical paradise in Southern." To keep an eye on Toric, or something of that ilk...although Domick didn't say it.

"And what duties would those be?" the old shadow Harper said with a curious cock of his head, taking Domick's words to him as an excuse to enter the room and come over to them. But he gave Domick no time to answer the question. "Speaking of duties, I see the rumor mill is wrong for once."

"How so?"

"I'd heard you'd given your apprentice Woadred here leave to enforce your wrath past the rehearsal room," Kinsale said with a half-smile.

"That's ridiculous," Domick said. "Enforce my—ridiculous!"

"If you say so," Harper Kinsale—once known as Nip, and once also known to a few (such as Domick) as agents within the late Fax's borders—said. "Woadred," and Kinsale extended his hand to the silent apprentice. "I'm Master Kinsale. It's good to meet you."

Woadred regarded the Harper, and there was a wrinkle between his brows that signified to Domick, who'd been learning the young man's cues, that Woadred was having trouble adapting to a sudden change. But eventually he reached out and briefly clasped the other Harper's hand. "Master Kinsale," he said, and it sounded exactly like what it was; a parroting of the man's name with no conception of who he truly was.

Of course, Domick thought only Master Robinton fully knew what the old shadow harper was, and even then possibly not all of it, given he'd inherited the man from his predecessor. "Why do we have the honor of your presence this fine day?" Domick asked him.

"Well, I was off to pick up a young harper named Piemur—"

Domick's eyes widened. First of all—Piemur was back in the Hall? He'd vanished turns ago, and all that Master Robinton would say when anyone asked was that he was still alive...although Domick had, at one point, been very sure something disastrous had happened to him, given the stress Robinton, Sebell, and Menolly had all been under at one point. Sebell had left with Piemur—and then _hadn't returned with him_. Domick wouldn't exactly say that he _cared_ for Piemur, but such an event had been chilling.

Secondly—Domick couldn't think of any scenario less disastrous than Piemur reporting to Nip. _Piemur._ That child was a trial even without any secret orders going to him...what was Robinton _thinking?_

"—but I overheard some of your conversation, and I wanted to make Woadred here an offer—"

"NO." Domick said with finality.

Kinsale's eyebrows shot up. "He hasn't even heard the offer."

Domick had a vision of Woadred dead, his throat black-and-blue from being garroted by his own gitar strings. Then he had another vision of Woadred's hands crushed. His tongue ripped out. His legs broken, so he could no longer journey to bring tales back to Robinton. And his eyes gouged out, for "seeing too much". Even though he knew the days of Fax were long, long over and being sent on a Journey with Nip wasn't the danger it once had been—

—there were other places, pockets left over from the days of Fax, that would still kill a Harper as soon as look at him.

"Woadred," Domick said, with an intense sort of earnestness. "The _last_ thing you want to do is report to Master Kinsale for lessons."

"No?" Kinsale said to Domick. "You did fine, when Petiron loaned you to me, did you not? Aside from that little stomach ailment. Or is that 'ale'ment?" He chuckled. "Woadred, before you let your Master speak for you, think on this...Officially I'm here to speak to Piemur. But I hear that his tongue is faster than his brain sometimes, and they used to beat the snot out of him. I'm not sure I admire someone who's small but lets himself be beat up _anyway_ because he can't hold his tongue. _You_, on the other hand—there's tales about what you and Nariath did all the way up to High Reaches. You can swing a sword. And you're already punching out bullies in the Hall and getting Master Domick all worked up. I'm one of those paths Domick here says you should consider—"

"I'm pretty sure I just said _not_ to listen to you," Domick corrected sourly.

"Are you? I thought you were fairly generic when speaking about how men _plan_ their paths, myself...and, this is work that, no matter how much you dislike it, _matters._" He turned back to Woadred. "You, me, Piemur, and Robinton. What say you we all have a little talk?"

Woadred was silent, as he had been through all of it. Then, finally, he glanced over at Domick.

Domick slowly shook his head. "There's other ways of achieving your goal to do something meaningful," he said. "I can work with you. I had hoped you would see these other options naturally, but we can discuss—"

"Now, Master Kinsale?" Woadred said, turning back to the old stringy harper. "We will talk?"

"Right now. Don't fret, Domick. I'll bring him back in one piece."

And with that, Nip threw an arm across Woadred's broad shoulders, and led him out of Domick's office.

Domick watched them leave, fear taking up an uncomfortable home in his guts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"So, when do I go back to Southern?" Piemur asked, after what had easily been a few hours of recounting everything he'd been up to at Toric's Hold and in the jungles surrounding it near and far.

"You don't," Robinton said.

Piemur stared at him in shock, but held his tongue. He trusted the Masterharper..._but_...well, he'd hardly scratched the surface of everything he'd learned. Clearly, he had _more_ to convey to his Master, so that the Harper could make the best decisions...

"My gut tells me it's starting to get a little treacherous down there..." Robinton said, looking thoughtful.

"It's going to be difficult to integrate another Harper," Piemur said. "Toric's naturally suspicious."

"I'm sending Sebell. Toric seemed to like him well enough."

"—permanently?" Piemur asked, before he could hold his tongue.

Robinton just arched an eyebrow. "As for you, my young rascal, I've summoned a new tutor to the Harper Hall."

"A tutor for what?"

"You think you've learned everything there is to learn?" Robinton asked with a chuckle.

Piemur turned red. "No, no, I didn't mean it that way, Master. It's just...I haven't done anything _wrong_, have I?"

"Well, that situation at Nabol did not go as either I or Sebell planned it," Robinton said, the chuckle fading.

He felt a bit of panic, for Robinton's tone and expression was, at best, ambiguous. But Robinton hadn't been known for delaying punishment. "That was turns ago—" And he'd been made Journeyman afterwards, to boot!

"Which just means you're long overdue some formal education in these types of matters," Robinton said.

Piemur had the feeling the sly Harper was enjoying his discomfort. "Am I...still your Journeyman?" he asked.

"Yes, I suppose so, but in the short term—"

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Robinton called.

Piemur twisted around to look at the door as it opened, and two men entered. One was old, older than the Masterharper, and unknown to Piemur which meant he certainly wasn't usually stationed at the Harper Hall. And the other was roughly Menolly or Sebell's age, although he strangely bore an Apprentice knot on his shoulder.

"Is this Piemur?" the old Harper asked, not bothering to introduce himself. "Or shall I come back?"

"This is Piemur, Master Kinsale," Robinton said, although when Piemur glanced back at him he saw his Master's eyes were on the young man, appraisingly.

"Ah, excellent! I brought Woadred along, too. You'll have a talk with Domick, yes? Poor man nearly pissed himself when Woadred agreed to come with me."

"That's not true," the other man quietly said, as Piemur tried to contain his delighted laugh at someone so casually claiming Master Domick of all people had nearly pissed himself.

"Are you calling me a liar Woadred?" Master Kinsale said to the younger man.

There was a long silence as the man called Woadred did not answer.

"That sounds like a yes," Piemur said.

Robinton cleared his throat. "Not necessarily," he said in a soft tone, to Piemur. Then he raised his voice. "Woadred. Nip's invited you here?"

"He...did," Woadred said softly, his eyes fixated on a corner of the room that had nothing important there. Piemur checked, just to be sure.

"Why? You're not content with Master Domick?"

"I...like Master Domick."

"They were snarling at each other," Kinsale said. "Although I suppose it could have been _loving_ snarling..."

"Enough," Robinton said, quietly but firmly. "Woadred?"

Another silence, stretching long. Piemur began to feel affronted at it. They'd let a man this slow and oblivious and downright _rude_ to the Masterharper into the Hall?

"Did you know..." Woadred said, and stopped.

More silence. Kinsale turned to look at Woadred, and raised his eyebrows, waiting for the young man to go on.

"...that the female Apprentices are being harassed?" Woadred finished suddenly, as if he'd never paused.

Robinton's hand went to his cup of klah, and he poured himself more from the pot. Taking a judicious sip, he said, "Is that so?" he said in an expectant tone.

"Yes," Woadred said. And nothing more, despite how Robinton was waiting.

"Do you have any details?" Piemur asked on his master's behalf, when it was clear nothing more would be forthcoming. Couldn't this Woadred tell that such a proclamation was useless without the details? Little shells, he'd just sat himself with the Harper for _hours_, divulging...

Clear grey eyes moved themselves from the corner of the room to rest upon Piemur. "I punched one in the face," he said, unsettlingly.

"Which is why _I_ brought him _here_," Master Kinsale said, triumphant.

Piemur could not at all see what was triumphant about this. The old harper was mad.

But the old, mad harper continued talking. "Master Domick and Apprentice Woadred disagree on what things in life matter. Domick prefers to insult wrongdoers with musical genius even harpers can only barely understand, much less ordinary mortals. Woadred just wants to punch them in the face. Also, he knows how to use a sword, which could be handy. Between Piemur's long absence from formal musical training...and Woadred's...they may be matched there, as well."

Matched? Robinton had said Piemur was still his apprentice, and that he was still Journeyman, but between the thought of being temporarily assigned to this new harper for training, and shackled to...whatever this odd apprentice called Woadred was, Piemur couldn't help but think he was being punished. He looked at Robinton again, hoping his beseeching look would be interpreted accurately.

Robinton sipped his klah as if he didn't even see Piemur's expression, and leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes settled on Woadred. "What did Master Domick do when he heard you'd punched someone?"

"...he startled me, and I almost punched _him_..." Woadred said.

They all stared.

Then Kinsale clapped Woadred on the shoulder, and said, "With me you'll have better targets to punch, although the rumor mill says there's plenty that would have wanted to do _him_—"

Robinton cut him off. "I said, _enough_. Master Domick has my support. I care as much about the indignation of petulant children as he does." The Masterharper's voice was cold.

"Put them in a class with me, and they'll be thanking Domick for his kindness afterwards," Kinsale said cheerfully. "That'll learn 'em."

"And then what happened?" Robinton prompted Woadred.

"He covered my fist. And I apologized. He said he can't condone violence. I agree...and I don't agree. The boy deserved it. But the second was reaction; anger. And...undeserved. Master Domick has been nothing but kind to me. Far too kind." Woadred's fair skin began to burn bright red.

"Get him wound up enough, and he'll slap you too. After he yells at you," Kinsale said, jostling Woadred on the arm. "Just letting you know, if you decide not to study with me. _Unlimited_ slapping potential here, if you know who to study with in this—" then suddenly he saw the expression on Robinton's face, and stopped cold. "I jest, I just. Black humor. My deepest apologies, Masterharper," and he bowed to him, sincere.

Robinton wiped a hand down his face and sighed. Zair, who was sleeping behind him on the windowsill, raised his head and chirruped. "I know," he said to the bronze. "Domick said yes to this?" he asked the two newcomers.

"He said NO. Emphatically. But he's only Master of Woadred's education in composition, not of his world. Personally, I think it's a little strange to go from a life of constant battles, during and outside of threadfall, to one of constant introspection."

Piemur blinked, the threadfall comment striking him by surprise. The only people who battled threadfall—he looked more closely at Woadred's face, and yes, that unsettled half-man look...yes, that could be the face of a man who had lost his dragon.

Not a half-wit, or at least, probably not. Just one lost half of a sundered soul.

Was this how Lord Lytol had been, long ago? Brekke?

He wanted to say that immediately he felt compassion for Woadred, but to his own disquiet and lurking shame, he instead felt repulsion, for he couldn't see being a student alongside Woadred. He'd rather be all alone in his beautiful jungles again...or among humans who could laugh and love and talk without those awkward pauses.

"And you wish to come under Master Kinsale's wings?" Robinton asked.

"I don't know. We haven't talked yet."

"Do you say NO too, Masterharper?" Kinsale said.

"I may. I may not. Woadred, nothing spoken of in this room since you've entered leaves it."

"He may want to talk to Domick," Kinsale warned.

"Very well," Robinton said. "But impress upon Master Domick, Woadred, that it doesn't go any further."

"I can do that," Woadred said.

"The corner," Master Robinton said, waving his hand in that direction, where two couches faced each other around a table. Then he rose.

The four Harpers seated themselves; Robinton and Piemur on one side, with Kinsale and Woadred on the other. Piemur brought the pot of klah, and three mugs; Robinton carried his own mug.

"Nip," Master Robinton began.

"Don't ever call me Nip in front of other people," Master Kinsale said to Piemur and Woadred in an aside.

"Piemur's been at Southern, in and out of the Hold and Weyr—such as you can call that Weyr a Weyr—for several turns, and before that he accompanied Sebell to Nabol. He got out of Nabol safely, but I'm unwilling to trust his life to pure luck and untrained wit."

"What happened at Nabol?"

Robinton looked at Woadred, tapping a finger pensively over his lips. Piemur hoped he wouldn't speak, but Robinton evidently found this Woadred trustworthy, and turned back to Nip. "He stole a firelizard egg from Lord Meron. Right out of his bedchambers."

"It would have left him like all the others had," Piemur said defensively. "I can't think of a fate more horrible than Impressing to _him_."

"And now Farli is Impressed to _you_," Robinton said in amusement.

"And she hasn't vanished _between_ to get away from me permanently," Piemur said.

"I see why you wanted me here," Nip said. "That's a little ballsy, even for me or Tuck. Wish we'd thought of it!"

"Mm," Robinton said. "Piemur, you may have wondered how Sebell knows all he knows how to do. Nip and Tuck taught him, as they did me. When Fax was alive—" Robinton trailed off.

"I harassed him, made things difficult for him and his lieutenants in the Holds he took. Kept dissent alive. Taught people to read. Retrieved lost harpers." Nip's eyes went distant.

"The one good thing about the Oldtimers is that they aren't connected to that time," Robinton said. "There are few that would even _think_ of kidnapping a harper and cutting his throat. However, there are plenty of people left over in odd corners of our world, particularly in the Holds that Fax kept who have no such compulsion, particularly in areas that witnessed how 'easy' it was to lock them away in salt mines. I worry if you don't have the training Sebell has had, you may end up in such a state, once you are no longer dealing with Oldtimers. Or if they are...contaminated, by such ideas."

"Not that training will always save you. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, something happens. But it's better than nothing. What do you think so far, Woadred?" Nip asked.

"Now that Fax is gone, what do you do?" Woadred asked.

Piemur thought it was obvious, but said nothing.

"We meddle," Nip said. "Rescue folks who got on the wrong side of the wrong people, when and where we can. Listen. Make sure men, women, and children know their rights. Make life difficult for the wrong people. Bring girl-harpers to the Hall."

"Truly?" Woadred said.

"I like to hook them in with tales about Master Robinton's mother," Nip said with a smile. "Between her and Menolly, it usually lights the fires of imagination. It's a shame so few remember Merelan. She was a remarkable woman. Robinton gets all his best traits from her."

"My mother technically was not a Harper. Only a Singer," Robinton said. "But it wasn't for lack of talent." Robinton took a gulp of klah. "I think that's why Petiron didn't tell me of Menolly's sex," Robinton said to Nip.

"Oh? Oh. Shards. Yes, I can see how the old bastard wouldn't have wanted to directly raise Menolly above the status of his own wife. Could seem unfaithful, I suppose. At least he taught her, I guess. Speaking of Menolly, I'd like to train her too."

"No," Robinton said.

"If you're mimicking Domick, the correct way to say that is 'NO'," Nip said.

"All the Holds know her face and she has nine firelizards that are difficult to hide. She will _never_ be going into the situations that...that _these_ two might. I won't allow it."

"You won't always be around," Nip pointed out. "And knowing a thing doesn't mean she will ever practice it."

"You've two students already," Robinton said, indicating Piemur and Woadred. "You've said that's your limit."

"I could train a third, after them," Nip said.

Robinton just shook his head. Piemur, himself, was amazed at having witnessed someone argue with the Harper like this. But then, this Nip seemed something of a maverick.

But even the maverick dropped the subject, and moved on. "For the local portion of their training, I'd like Piemur and Woadred three days out of seven," Nip said.

"Very well."

"I'd also like Piemur and Woadred both taking instrumental lessons from Domick."

"Instrumental lessons?" Piemur asked.

"You've stagnated," Robinton said. "Unless you can tell me what other instruments but drum and pipe you carried on with on your travels? I don't suppose you made and played a fiddle for Stupid, or a brass horn for the wild strands of numbweed?"

Piemur hadn't, so he shook his head.

"I'd like your musical education to continue. All isn't lost when one's voice breaks, as you now know, and that shouldn't be the end of your musical duties either. Woadred, you've also stagnated, although with so many turns in the Weyr that's understandable. However, there is more to music beyond gitar and composition of songs for gitar."

"Yes sir," Woadred said.

"I'd like him to take swordplay lessons, too," Nip said.

Robinton frowned.

"It is what it is, Robie. I won't let that talent pass us up, as he's already knowledgeable and good with it, or was a few turns ago. Better that his skills are being kept up. I know a man at Fort, one of Groghe's soldiers, who will teach him."

"Do you want to do this?" Robinton asked the ex-rider.

"Yes," Woadred said, immediately.

Robinton looked down at his cup, brooding. Then he said, "I generally do not allow swords to be worn in my Hall. Yours would have to stay out of sight."

Woadred nodded.

Then the Masterharper looked at Nip again. "Will your swordsman teach women?" Robinton asked.

Nip looked surprised. "I will check."

Robinton nodded.

Piemur waited hopefully for the Harper to say that _he_ should be included too, but it didn't come. He looked down at his hands. It didn't seem fair that Menolly would be offered training with a sword, but _he_ wouldn't...then again, Robinton had also prohibited Menolly from being included in _these_ lessons. Something which he knew the woman would resent fiercely if she only knew. Well, he supposed it was fair, in an odd way. "How many days will we be studying instruments?" he asked. "And what instruments?"

"I'll need to check with Master Domick," Robinton said. "I was thinking I'd like to start you two on fiddle, then tenor or bass fiddle. Then perhaps on to the trumpet, and harp. Reed instruments, after that."

"That's quite a spread," Nip said. "How good do you want them to be?"

"Good enough for the road, and Menolly's simpler songs," Robinton said. "If either of you find an instrument you love, then I hope to eventually find you adequate by Domick's standards."

"I'm 'adequate' in voice," Piemur said, hoping that might get him out of it. Domick's "adequate" was any other master's "skilled".

"You were 'adequate', as a treble. Are you claiming to be soloist quality now?" Robinton asked.

Piemur quickly shook his head. "No, sir." He wished he hadn't spoken up about it; he wasn't sure he really liked his new voice, what little he'd heard of it when speaking. Perhaps taking up an instrument would be better, less pressure...oh, who was he kidding? If he ended up in direct lessons with Domick, which he might if this Woadred was his study partner and Apprenticed to Domick, he was in for pain no matter what he did.

"What about instrument making?" Woadred said.

"Do you enjoy it?" Robinton said.

Woadred hesitated, but it was a normal hesitation, not one of his long ones. "Wirt is quite clever. I don't mind learning from him."

"Then you can continue, although if you end up strapped for time, I'd like you to focus on composition with Menolly or Domick. Very well. Woadred, I'd like you to report to Nip's swordsman sometime today, and Piemur, you're to report to Domick for evaluation."

Nip cleared his throat.

"Yes?"

"I'd advise against Piemur being the one to break all this news to Master Domick."

Robinton laughed, and turned to Piemur. "What do you say? You said you've learned quite a bit of diplomacy at Southern-"

"You never listen to me, Robie," Nip muttered.

Piemur, for his part, immediately objected. "Please, Master, I'd rather stay out of anything involving Master Domick for as long as I can. We'll be mad at each other soon enough."

"You'll be reporting to him, you know, at least publically."

"What?!" Piemur cried in dismay. "But that just makes no sense-I'm not good at all at composition. I'm not even good at Menolly-style composition; she makes anything I do look like dung!" Hadn't he already done the subterfuge, supposedly "reporting" to a master other than his actual one?

"She makes everyone look like dung," Woadred unexpectedly interjected. "Her music is fantastic."

"Master Domick is already in the know about Nip being here, I'd rather not involve any others who might ask questions about what he's teaching you. You WILL report to Master Domick. But, as I am a generous and understanding Master, _I_ will break the news to him," and Robinton's eyes had an amused twinkle in them.

"Thank you!" Piemur said fervently.

"What do you know, he _did_ listen to me," Nip said.

"He's not that bad," Woadred said, of Domick.

"No, Piemur just has a history with him, and it doesn't bode well that he didn't want you learning from Master Kinsale here. Piemur, come with me."

And Piemur rose to follow the Masterharper out of his office, while Master Kinsale leaned over to confer with Woadred behind them.


End file.
